Conte, a journal of narrative writing.

Turn at the Roosevelt Road Underpass

Just an ordinary walk to the store--like any
other day--needing a few minor things and one
major thing. The snow melts and the low sun
has only a few more degrees to sink lower,
then Christmas and the light lifts upwards.

I hardly notice the rose colored clouds,
or the shadows where the sidewalk meets
the underpass, yet I soon wonder, could not
this place and the expanse away from me,
the evening sky and behind that, could it all

simply be a screen or the great gushing up
of something beyond mind, something
like a dream but more or less substantial?
I imagine that whomever dreams the day
also dreams the night, and that dream

pours into a woman to take human form
and becomes like a man in his ordinary walk
to the store--the man who needs many small
blessings and a great blessing. How wondrous!
The One who makes the atoms juggles them.