photo: ralph murre
by Sandra Lindow
Utopia means no place, reflecting
the impossibility of perfection.
Resources are limited; life, short,
and the correlation between
desire and fulfillment, sloppy at best.
What with wars, epidemics and mass starvations
dystopia is upon us, but today
eating breakfast on my front porch
hearing chickadees in the cottonwood,
and seeing an irrepressible joy of July sunshine
spun like cotton candy between Tiger lily
and Monarch, I reconsider.
A hummingbird hovers in the Bee Balm,
its tiny tongue of life outwitting the dark.
The hydrangea and the spirea
are out of control, charging
like unleashed dogs across the lawn.
I have planted mugwort
and am learning spells for the perfect crumpet.
The garlic is ready for harvest.
Utopia is what I make it: here, now.
~ first published in Red Cedar Journal