Waking

Waking up this morning, I knew that I had been walking barefoot on the Sun all night, my naked golden body made of That compared to which fire is stone. Every breath was a ray of violet lightning. Even now, I am walking there, holding your hand.

We stroll through a garden of radiant formless possibility, dreaming a dream that surely must mean something, if only we could share it in good faith. We dream that we have awakened on a green planet, where snow melts into streams that sing to the forest, anointing tender black seeds of plenteous carbon. They grow into hosts of wild flowers - lupine, alpine aster, cascade lily, indian paint brush - each tiny blossom giving birth to the Sun: the Sun in the heart of the Earth.