You see, the dreams change.
Some times it is your choice.
Other times, life’s wrecking ball changes them for you.
No matter the reason,
they change. You change.
You rebuild the blocks into something new,
more a child than a broken old man.
You know the difference.
You have been that broken old man,
utterly lacking in dreams or youth,
It is a dark place.
Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
It is dark and empty, a black hole of the soul.
You are younger now.
You have rearranged the broken block tower,
finding in the pile, a new dream.
Until you are surrounded by the things,
a whirlwind of color and possibility,
growing younger with each year,
Not because of anything you do or are,
but because you allowed
to become new.
About this poem
I used to think I had to make all my dreams come true. I’ve since learned that simply allowing them to come true is just as effective.
The picture is of the front of my art studio, in the old Presbyterian Church in Middle Granville, New York. It’s a dream I didn’t have five years ago. And here I am.
Be well. Travel wisely,