canopied in purple

the streets now

are lined with trees

blooming purple.

(i've never seen purple trees

before i moved to California.)

the streets are canopied

in purple and

i walk underneath them

with a contradictory sense

of euphoria

and nostalgia,

a pleasant and strange mix

of dreaming and

desperately wanting to go back home.

in the dream,

i have a home.

the walls are crooked

the plaster is uneven

there are dents in the wood

from children we've never met.

in my dream, we have children,

three, daughters.

we walk down the street canopied in purple

in search of an ice cream cone because

in january it is still warm enough for

an ice cream cone as long as there is also

chocolate fudge.

because we determined long ago

to teach them to believe in magic.

that home would be first a fantasy,

and then a stability,

and then, only when necessary,

a place where we pay bills.

and even then, we pay them in the park.

and it is magic to eat ice cream on an idle tuesday,

the same idle tuesday we got married on,

when there is nothing else to celebrate.

and our children will play pretend

and live out stories and

we will add props and glitter

but never the cold hard truth

that the love letters we write in the park

to distant princes

are really just men in suits with square faces

called Insurance and Mortgage.

and they will think that their insurance is our arms

and our mortgage is our bed.