Mirage

What is this miracle, this

alchemy of words, language,

allowing me to make shapes on a page

or screen

and create a gnarled cypress, knees

rising from the river

in your mind,

make you smell the fresh,

green-wet fragrance of cedar

while hawks wheel

over your head

in the sky of your mind’s eye,

create the sound of a flowing river,

bubbling over shoals of shale,

whispering past the cypress and cedar,

make you feel the tingle in your skin

when I submerge you in

cold, fresh, clear water

or give you the sensation

of tasting the salt of the ocean

assaulting you by tumbling

you in a wave, maybe

slamming you into the sand,

perhaps allowing you to ride the crest,

suspended between air and water,

abandoning earth

with sand in the tangled,

briny locks of your seaweed hair.

I can make the beach empty,

vast stretches of sand, ocean

out of reach,

or fill it with life—

sandcastles, volleyball, bocce,

kites and teenagers flying high

while children play at the

laughing edge of water,

scalloped into lace.

Maybe I want to put you

in a city, traffic and smog,

arrivals and departures,

high-heeled shoes clicking

on highly polished

hardwood floors,

cool marble facades,

an illuminated skyline

you can’t see because

you’re inside it, feeling the pulse,

the thrum and throb of

desire

for more, more, more:

another cocktail, another kiss,

another night on the town.

I can take you up in a Ferris wheel,

feel the bucket swing and sway,

feel the terror of nothing

but air beneath you

as the wheel turns,

sand slipping through the hourglass

while everyone hopes

I will bring them

back to the river, among the trees.

Hawks fly, fish swim,

I draw you in.

Come with me down sun-dappled

forest paths, fallen leaves a mosaic

beneath our feet

alongside mossy trunks

while we breathe needles and leaves

beside the river of memories

flowing beside us, maybe even

plunge into the water,

stop walking

and swim.