rhododendron

what will you do with us now?

at one time we looked through stained glass. but here we are: smelling the rhododendron on the other side of a broken windshield.

where did it all go?

I once walked on the highlands, along the rough, moss-covered rocks, watching the wet dew as dusk crept towards me and held me gently.

was this all a dream?

who wakes me?

I’ve packed my bags and stand looking back at those highlands through glossy eyes. was this all real or just well imagined? I’m leaving the rhododendron, the neon lights that were leaves, and the dream that I wrapped like a sheet around my heart and body.

can I sink into despair over this fleeting edge of a dream?

I’ve come home, and yet I still look to the hills. mine are deep green and cool and full of hope. they call me back and wait for my slow step where they too will cradle me closely.

we create the reality we expect our mind to believe. the stained glass too – I breathed into it and painted it, and believed in it, but it stands as a mirage, as wet and fleeting as the highland dew.

only the pale rhododendron reminds me of what I left. I pick a fragrant stem and tuck it close to my ear.

the slice of the broken windshield stands out like an angry growl. I will take it. for it is all I know, and most of all, it is real.