If I am to dream,
I would be a single blade of grass
plain, unadorned, untouched by elegance.
Lying in that meadow,
gazing up at the sky,
I would be a drop of dew lifting into height.
Shedding all that clothes me
outer and inner alike,
I would drift away, a speck of white cloud.
And when I fill the empty jar within my dream,
I would live green again,
no more than a humble earthen-bowl poem.
