The Ether is Real

Last night I dreamt that I could fly
like in the old days,
when gravity didn't tether me quite so tight
and the tips of my toes would barely brush the blacktop
and the feeling of being alive would
shoot through me like so many arrows,
and the mortar that held my soul
to my body was as solid and sound
as that which holds my hearth.
And as real.
When I felt as light and as brave
as the city finch that hops to my feet.

And I awoke and filtered these things
through the years and through myself,
and found each to be as true today,
with as much empirical reality
as the dirty dishes in my kitchen sink.