In my dream, I woke to a new world,
to Passiflora incarnata.
I was walking among meadows.
They were like aliens of the flower realm,
their coronas like suns within suns,
and a universe expanding inside.
They are the passion of Christ,
with their own crowns of thorns,
and all but Judas present in the bloom.

I woke to a purple sky,
and a sword-billed hummingbird
feeding on the nectar of the Andean sun.
I was holding the Holy Grail,
and many came to hear me speak
about love and charity.
Then I was alone with my father,
and the flower put me to sleep
like a snowfall in eternity.

The meadow was a flowering Mahabharata:
Behold, O Bhima, this unearthly flower.
Within it is the very source of dreams;
within it is the very source of justice.
But why, in our violent times,
are all your warriors asleep?
How can goodness sleep in flames?”

I woke a third time in a passionflower daze.
The world was unchanged,
but I saw it for what it was,
and I smiled at the fleetingness of beauty.