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I have been here for some time,
nestled in a beanbag chair with a cat on my lap,
my mind in other places.
I have just read an entire book of poems;
for the past hour or two I have been breathing their essence.
My mind has been in a different reality:
one slightly removed from our normal one,
where things often ignored are brought into focus
and an element of dreaming permeates the waking world.
It is an interesting place,
and it does not let visitors leave easily.
I swim up out of the book and take a breath,
relearning about the flow of air to the lungs, and yet,
as I climb out of the water I realize
that my gills have not yet faded from existence.
I stand on the shore as I did before the swim,
and as I walk off my footsteps are filled with water.
I get up from the beanbag chair and meander through the house;
normal, everyday movements.
But I can feel that with every step, every sweep of an arm,
I am trailing poetry in my wake.
It follows like an invisible yet colorful cloud,
like a robe made chiefly of magic,
like bioluminescence in a bay at night,
that glows and then fades where
my fingers have trailed through the water.
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