A hundred maps line the walls,
but scale representations of cities,
mountains, rivers, roads,
castles, museums, dramatic views
never show the secret places,
the precious depths and heights
to which humans fly
in dream. Careful pens draw
the boundaries of the living,
but the dead walk paths unseen,
to places our waking hearts forget.
If mortal hands could map the skies,
make clouds into countries
or sunsets into salvation,
what strange markets would open,
what ghosts would take our gold
and turn it into ashy treasure?
And what more can we carry back
but our changed hearts,
broken for a night and mended by morning?
© 2015 Jennifer Crow