what happened to my dreams of flying?

there's no denying they were real enough.

In that sleeping realm

I passed the elm

and valley bound on wingless flight

my silence buoyed me up

to look down on the buttercup,

and as I willed it

landed with a maiden sigh

as levitating

the world passed by.

 

Of late my dreams go plodding on

no more magic to thrill my soul -

could it be that poetry

has taken over and made me whole?