Every time we pass this spot on the dusty river trail,
my daughter gazes across the water to the other side,
shaded by cliffs, where moss grows thick and deep.
I would love to sleep on that moss, she says,
as her eyes go gauzy, her voice grows soft.
Living in high desert, as we do, mossy places are few.
As a girl, I had in my bedroom a whole wall covered
with a mural of a Japanese garden, its gray rocks
mostly covered in green. I, too, dreamed of stepping
into in a place so lush, so verdant, so alive even rocks
proved fertile ground. To find that kind of fertility inside me—
inviting what is sensual, vital, to flourish in the barren,
desiccated places in my heart—that is my new dream.
But it is not always easy to let in the dark. Not always easy
to let what is hard in me be broken down so something
might grow. There are places I long to go with my girl.
Some are nearby, just across the stream.
Some, breath close, are much harder to travel to.