Stranger Things

A brain is a place for dreams.

The body, subdued

by its ability to feel the real.

A place, not winter.

Something warm this way comes.

I can feel the echo

of my imagination

reverberate and bounce

like a stone thrown

from the summit of a mountain.

Sometimes poetry

has a certain shape-

it wings its way through

ticker tape parade taking place

on another side of life.

If you hurry, you can see it.

Maybe catch a glimpse

of school kids

skipping class

running past

a handful of nobody nothings,

their brains, a place for dreams.

A heart knows it-

and so does

every person with a grin

pinned to their face.