The Wizard of Dreams

by Christine Adams Beckett

Tucked comfortably into
Our vie quotidien, we live
Not so much in monotony
As swaddled in a warm blanket of
Perceived certainty.

Inevitably, the three AM phone calls
Jar us from lullabied sleep into a
Racing heart, a dry mouth
Requiring us to get out of bed
And board airplanes, soaring through
What feels nothing like cruising altitude:
Where the temperature is an
Inconceivable -70 degrees fahrenheit.

The flight time gives us
Ample opportunity to stare out
Of tiny windows, contemplating
The unreachable, a vapor, a quilt of clouds,
Analyzing the daydream
In which we’ve been sleeping.

As children, dreams of flight
Roused us with the same
Startled thrill, bells that rang
Just as loudly as that of a telephone,
Sprinkling snow on poisoned poppies
By a wizard of dreams,
Like our wide-eyed children
Who re-introduced us to faeries
Which we had sworn –
If only for a moment or two –
Were real.