In brilliant late light between blurred days of rain,
fat cumulus clouds climb a sheer sheet of blue –
a white pillow parade over deep purple hills.
Still, why toy with adjectives which only obscure
the pristine emptiness of this transient scene?
Why not say it plainly?
None of this display is real –
it’s only a dream parade.
Nor am I the image you have of me —
that’s just a bit of fiction, a mystery play
of mind dressed up in light and shadow.
There is no enduring self or even any substance
within any of these engaging stories, these tales
to which we so poignantly cling, and which
become our keening heartbreak as we do.
Bewildering as this parade of forms may be,
let’s just watch it all pass on by, in step
with the costumed marching bands.
We can don the gaudy plastic beads,
laugh and toss paper streamers in the air,
and clap at the clowns with their silly props.
Let’s gaze in delight at the floats of colorful flowers,
all gliding gaily by in waves of fragrant floral splendor.
We’ll inhale the lingering perfume of those many blossoms,
soon no more than petal dust scattered along a boulevard
which once was filled with such a lovely dream parade.