Going Home

I remember a time when
a rain puddle was an ocean
alive with immense possibilities
and a broken stick held high
could defeat evil armies on the run;
long before the idea of the Flood
washed away visions of Achilles
and compelled me to collect
picture postcards of the Golden Calf.

I climbed the Himalayas
to look down on the clouds of Olympus
as treasures sank in drunken boats
lost in a sea of opportunities.
A nightingale sitting on a broken fence
sang its saddest song for me
as I prayed for a morning dove
to bring me a stolen rainbow.

In the light of the horizon
Pandora's gift has been resealed.
I run to greet the magic dragon
roaring with raucous delight
as he leaves his cave by the Arctic sea
where green nights and glittering ice
illuminate reflections of queens and warriors
dancing in the snow at twilight,
reveling in the magic of my rebirth.