Always the writer of poetry, never the object of a poem 

By Aubrey Clover (a five-leaflet clover, not lucky like a four-leaf, just different) 

I used to believe I could run far enough into the woods that Edward Scissorhands’ castle would appear.   He was alone and so was I and I would live with him.  He’d make ice sculptures and I’d write stories about them.  But I never could find his castle.  I always searched for it, even in dreams, hoping it was real.  Hoping it would appear from a dream.   

Sometimes I want to stay in sleep, in dreams, and keep my eyes closed.  Drift far off into space.  But it can’t get dark enough, and when I try to collapse into myself, there’s this solid warm center that never disappears.  I feel everything around me, hear everything.  My dreams are interrupted by gravity, because it keeps me on Earth, and it’s the only thing that stops me from disappearing and floating to the stars.   

The philosopher Chuang Tzu once had a dream about being a butterfly.  When he woke up he didn’t know if he was a man who had dreamed he was a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming he was a man.  What was real, what was a dream.  That’s how I always feel.  Maybe Edward’s castle is real.  I just haven’t searched the right places.

(copyright © 2008 XT, Mulberry Bark Publishing)

For press inquiries and review copies, please contact Lisa Bowman:  bowman.lisa @mulberrybark.com

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