Cottonwoods tell me water is near,
they catch the wind in their crowns.
Cottonwood seeds have started flying—
there are snowflakes in my eyes
and dreams on my eyelids.

What casts more shade,
umbrellas of the earth?
What leaves are yours
that add more stars to the sky?
What seeds are yours
that fly with their own parachutes?
What boats are yours,
that they float on my streams?

I stood beside “the standing one,”
who connects earth to the heavens—
tree of the sun, tree of life.
Why do I feel, standing under you,
like I’m returning
to the garden of my soul,
where we all belong to each other.

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.