On a perfect day

there would be no clocks

calendars

schedules.

I would awaken

when I was rested

sleep when I was tired

eat when I was hungry

drink when I was dry.

On a perfect day

I would go wherever

my creative muses led me.

I might wade a creek

touching nature

teaching children

or I might go to

France’s Mirmande

cobblestone streets

sun on my face

ancestral winds at my back.

On a perfect day

I might drive over

to Penn’s Store

where I would meander

amongst fellow misfits

poets, painters, songsters.

No one would care

what I looked like

what clothes I had on

or how I wore my hair.

On a perfect day

no one would be nice

because of what I could give them

or do for them

or how I made them feel

about themselves.

No one would misread me

assigning desire where

only kindness was intended

or assuming anger when

quiet contemplation overtook me.

On a perfect day

I might paint, write

sing or dance

or stare quietly into space

not really knowing where

my mind had been

then suddenly

having an inspiration

an insight

an ah-ha, that’s it!

On a perfect day

I might make a memory

with another or a few

without baggage

ownership

hurt

just joy.

On a perfect day

I would be like a butterfly

landing where flowers bloom

hurting nothing

taking nothing

expecting nothing

–just being.

All I would want

would be warmth and freedom

from jars, nets and insect zoos.