by Jen Pearson
winter is a dreamland.
the cloudwater drops in crystalline star shapes to the earth into heaps with the same fluffy texture as originally in the sky.
it covers the green plants and the brown and gray earth, the faded fallen leaves of autumn
with a restful blanket
so that the earth may dream.
a blank slate
for a full imagination
the woods are silent, the water runs beneath its icelayer and drops off from tree branches, and the winter birds sing in whispers while the earth dreams of what lives beyond the clouds
only the hard asphalt remains
veins that continue pulsing with cars and producers/consumers carrying on with what
i hope won’t wake us up into a never ending day. endless production, endless consumption.
our body’s toxins never sleep
if they did they would dream another world and wake up feeling silly
about aspiring to the eternal day
that has left us all exhausted, cranky and delirious
caught in false momentum
and building more veins for the toxic day to overflow.
the cold, sterile whiteness of a false day,
the leaking air conditioner on the 84th floor,
pierces into the warm snowy blanket
under which the earth is tucked away dreaming of cyclical rhythms, the sun and the moon and the earth bound to its yearly cycle, spinning around in circles precariously balanced in a highchair awaiting spoonfuls of honey and all the other vanishing nourishments that revive the skin, the blood, the muscles and the liver of its body.
and it melts instantly,
poisoning all who drink from its river.
adderall and lithium forced down the small throat of a spinning child numbing her into a perpetual insomnia
until we smash our air conditioners
and put this day to rest.
let the night sky guide
so that its sun can shimmer in the mirror and remember its face.
so that no one is redirecting its memory into buzzing fluorescent coffins and skin cancer
and no one sitting high on the 84th floor
watching through the screen
and killing our dreams.