Poem: February 12, 2019

How I Imagine Entering Paradise

I wake up on a quiet, cool autumn morning.
I am on the ground beneath a tree, the sun
slanting through its yellow branches,
leaves falling like paper, landing all around.
The sound of a stream is nearby,
and to the right the intersection
of two dirt roads. There are trees
and rolling hills in all directions. The roads
are the only evidence that people have
ever seen this place. I am alone
with the stream, and trees and road. I take
the road, wandering to the left and in that way
of dreams I find I have passed miles
in an instant, and while the road is much
the same as it was, there is now
a stacked-stone wall that I run
my fingers along as I walk, and the stones
are cool and damp, and again
in an eventual instant, I find a rustic village
just to the right of the path. The buildings
have rough stone walls and thatching,
and in the center of the place, a wooden
table and chairs, and upon the table,
a snack: apples, bread, and cheese.
And I can see myself reflected
in the windows of the building across
from me and I am wearing simple clothes,
all cotton and leather, and I suddenly
have a backpack in which are the types
of treasures I tend to hoard: a pocket watch,
a knife, an ink pen, a bandana, a book.
And I've wondered, as I would guess you have,
about where the people are, but I get
the sense that they are near, but not present,
like their proximity is enough and
welcoming, but this is my place rather than
a place that people share. And so I walk on
and, of course, instantly find I have
traveled miles and the path is more
heavily wooded, and the earth is dark
and the shade is soothing and still, and now
to my left a vast lake that laps nearly
to the road, and right there, tied to a tree
is an orange canoe that points into the mists
that hover over the lake, and I know
that it waits there for me, so I load
my bag into the hull and push clear of shore.
I paddle into the lake and the paddling
is easy. My direction is certain
and in a blink I have spanned the lake
and I am approaching a rocky bank,
with a path that leads away toward
a great house with a wooden door which
I push and I am inside of a giant room, as large
as any I have seen in museums,
the ceiling easily three stories high,
The far wall completely made of windows
that look out upon a meadow of purple
that reaches gradually to a range of
misty hills, then snow-capped mountains,
and the room is strange, but perfect.
The floor is a flagstone border that surrounds
white sand expanses until I reach the middle
of the room which again has a flagstone walk
that surrounds an enormous pool of clear
water, and around the edges are pillars,
about the height of my shoulder, on which
bright and warm fires burn. And I know
that I can lie here in comfort, naked and young
and feel the perfect presence of this space,
my proximity to fire and water,
my collection of treasures, yes, and
I can look upon the world and rest,
and I am content to be in this place.