Untitled (Step)

I.
Step
step
step out the door,
into the landscape you see
from the window--
open-book pages flap in the winds
that float from the open window.

II.
Step (see the light)
step (see the grass).
The grass grows green and lean and long,
like lazy vacation afternoons,
interminable,
like time ticking
in endless grains of sand.

III.
Step
on the runway
step
on the porch
on the dock
on the sandy bank of the creek
and into the little boat named Adventure,
the one you built as a kid that summer, lovely summer,
crisp, eternal summer
sparkling like a penny on the sidewalk,
like the eyes of that girl
you just can’t forget—
the one who
taught you how to waltz,
whose eyes are summer,
the creek,
the boat,
whose name means Adventure
(how could it not?) in
some other lilting language.

IV.
Step into the poem,
the dream you created,
not while you were sleeping
but while your lashes blinked and danced
on skin as rough as vintage carpet.

V.
To dream is the first
step.