What will happen next?

she said.

And why.

he asked,

and so it went all day.

“What’s next?” she asked.

“And why?” he said.

 

Let’s climb a tree and learn it home;

safe place to grow a branch for flight

to fly through night and dream all day.

To pretend at work,

not work to play.

 

Why screw around?

Is flight not real?

And working play feels play-full

when trees are true

and branches balance birdnests

floating toward this stringish green-field Earth.

 

I fear what will happen next

she asks.

And why

he says.

and so it goes through life.

“What’s next?” she fears.

“And why?” he fails to reassure.

 

Let’s build a house high as the sky.

We’ll play on clouds and they on us

til vegeburgers rain like cars

too fast to find us

high above this tangled weedish plot.

 

Clouds feel good for rest

but not for forts.

The sun burns clouds like cars burn trees.

Let’s fall beneath a flower pot

and kiss her rooted tendrils

to grow full measured

good and true and real and wondrous

shade trees gracing fertile plots.

 

What will happen next?

she asks.

And why? he asks again.

And so it goes.

What’s next…

Why?…

 

Dedication: To Kerry

7/13/2014