It was late at night, as usual. Lines started running through my head. A bit of whimsy slipped through, although it’s serious too. We are slippers in the sense of ‘time slips,’ slipping into the Imaginal:

4 May 2024

In my silver slippers for dancing all night,

I knelt by the path to retrieve a lost light

when under a petal I spied a small man,

and we shared some small talk for a very small span.

He held out his hand, and he opened it wide.

In it a sky lay–a whole ocean skied

with a firmament starry as all Heaven’s mind–

and I knew in my heart I had found my own kind.

My slippers fly under and over the Moon,

and though I am poor, I am wealthy in shoon–

for One flies beside me. He isn’t a god–

he’s music itself being lunarly shod.