Imagination

Possibility unfurls.    
I mold wildflowers in my room.    
   
The birds lie listening    
in the lapping waters of my brain.    
   
Forms of things    
walk softly there and blossom,
refusing reason,   
as though they were written    
against the morning's edge.    
   
I peel every light soul of them    
into existence,    
and time disappears.