THE POETRY PARK
I had a dream last night
It borders on the very edge of my imagination
And I wonder if parts of my memories have been thrown in.
I was walking on a very old asphalt road
The kind with chunks and chips out of it making it uneven.
I walked through this spiked, black gate which reached up to Heaven
And there was a weathered sign which read
Poetry Park
There was a line of old and young waiting to get out,
But the entry in was unobscured.
People of all ages were coming in the gate
And I noticed some were carrying things.
I saw one with a gong, another with a photo of a dearly departed,
One wearing a favorite worn-out cap,
Someone struggled with an easel and another with a note pad and pencil.
Me? I had nothing except a friend by my side.
The grass on both sides was green and long,
It waved to me as I walked past.
Groves of trees were on both sides a little distance from the road
And as I continued along the road,
The others began to disappear as they went off on their own.
I continued walking on this old asphalt road
Looking above me at the grayish, cloudy sky and all around,
Thinking about the ones who traveled this very road ages before
But knowing at this very moment, this road was designed for me.
My road began to get smaller, curved to the left,
Went down a little hill, between some trees.
It led me to an open building made of logs
And out in front was a machine where you could put in quarters
For postcards sent from the Poetry Park.
I am, after all, the postcard queen.
As I reached in my pocket for change to send
My friend said to me
You should drive in. You could explore so much more.
And I thought to myself as I looked at him,
That would only ruin this place.
So I answered with careful thought
You can only go as far as your imagination allows
And he faded away before my eyes.
Now I stand truly alone in my Poetry Park
The way it was always meant to be.
Excited about where my imagination would lead,
I put the coins back in my pocket,
Forgot the silly postcards
And walked on.
� Rosalia A. Hendrix