Temporal Tryst

Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero, meaning “seize the day while trusting as little as possible on what tomorrow might bring”.

Tomorrow

In a daytime dream,
the kind of interlude
I once slipped into
and out of
as easily as frog to pond,

and as shiny,
with the slick
lubricant of youth,

I met some Truth.

Down by the river,
it seemed,
among the broad
skunk cabbage leaves
where I knew fairies
peeked at me,
or napped,

though to catch them asleep
is a very rare thing indeed,

I tripped upon a root,
and stumbled into something,
a large shape-shifting cloud,

more like a swarm
of stingerless bees,
or a waft
of waxing hummingbirds.

I tumbled in,
and seemed to hover there
held aloft
by all that buzz and dance,

and in that dream
of separation, day
from night or young
from middling,
or me from you,

I opened my lips
to introduce
my self or selves,
time traveling grandaughter
of the Fae,
or some Balkan equivalent,

and found no words in me,
only a throat full of ears,
a heart shaped
basket
of listen
and feel
and know

and so,
the thrum and verve,
the sparkle and mumble
of nebulous dance and buzz,
passed over and under
and through me,

as if I were sponge,
born porous and light,
unknowingly poised
to take in and on,

and transform
and wring
and give forth,

and this amorphous
toss of effervescence
had wafted out
to meet me
in that dream of day,

to gift a message
and task me tastefully

to go forth
and make story
or poem
or song,

and tell you,
tell you all,
that I met Tomorrow,

and that she never lands,
never stays,
never quite arrives.

–Melinda Coppola

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