Asks my little boy, "Can I read your words?"
"Yes." He does not know how to read. Old notebooks, journals, on the floor. He carries them under his arm, hands one to my wife. I say, "That was my first journal."
"It's cute." She flips to the middle. Quiet for a moment. Now, "You should put this poem on your blog."
"Which one?"
"Here."
"I wrote that six years ago."
"And?"
Upon a chariot,
I ride there,
The Place of Eternal Spring,
On the outskirts of the City
Of New Ideas,
Closer to the Creator.
Upon a chariot,
Commanded by Angels,
I ride there,
The Place of Infinite Relation,
In earshot of the Temple
Of Contemplation,
Closer to the Giver of Life.
Upon a chariot,
Commanded by Angels,
To the Seventh Dimension,
I ride there,
The Place devoid of time and question,
Down the river from where
Moses and Elijah drink,
Closer to Perfection.
Upon a chariot,
I ride to Elysian Fields.
