Imagining is our only hope, Obi-Wan Kenobi.
Where else do solutions come from, if not
our fantasies, at first invisible as vapor,
the moist air of words riding on breath
galloping into the sky to bond with other
thought-exhalations, unidentified
floating orations, the UFOs
of all our songs and stories,
poems and prayers drawn up
into the atmosphere as dreams?

What else delivers life into the deserts
that we see around us when we listen
to the heartless words of politicians
spewing their toxic dust?

What else can fill the reservoirs of hope
to water our fields and pour through
our daily lives? I see it now more clearly
than ever I saw before: your voice and mine,
a continent apart perhaps, mingling high
above the troubled surface of our world,
joining together in the troposphere
creating the magnificent cumulus nimbus
that we intuitively recognize as holy,
the observation deck of angels,
our spoken dreams their home.

I see now how powerful I am, my cloud's
capacity to spread the toxic dust that kills,
as did Midwestern factories in my youth,
their mercury pollution blowing Eastward
killing the largest forest in America,
leaving millions of acres standing dead
from the freedom to pollute.

So I will hold fast to imagining
the world I want, and speak
my dreams, and look for yours
in the skies from which will fall
our future, rain in this precious land.