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to be born, we must all travel through a forest

through egg-white fields of mushroom villages

and rivers made of the weeping willows tears

who cries because her arms are stuck in the ground

but unlike trees our legs go back and forth and take us places we have never seen

in and out of caves lit by itty bitty bugs

and into streams of water filled with tickling fish

and when we poke our heads out far enough to see the tiny sun

we fly like birds over the mountains we’d always thought were so far away

and once our wings are tired, we land in clouds, under the moons stare

and there she whispers sweet things, and paints the world in every color, and more

and finally, when our eyes give way, and roll around to see the world

we are woken up, to remember that beautiful place

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