As a child, I would often imagine I lived on a tropical, deserted island.
I didn’t know much about the world, but
I knew some of the world.
Surely there was such a place among the Hawaiian chain
[I knew of the world, but not much.]
I traveled there often, and swam in the lagoon. Lived in a palm covered hut. Grilled fish on the beach. Gazed up to the moon in the starlit sky.
[Sometimes, there was romance on my island.]
I grew up. Still, I visited my island, and other places, other times, other universes.
But then everything changed.
I grew weary. And reality settled
harshly upon my shoulders.
I couldn’t go back in time or visit my island
or rough it beside Big Salmon River in the Yukon.
My mind became a desolate place, and I was its prisoner.
What about the medical risks? How would I visit the doctors?
At night, in this wasteland, I look up.
If there is only the moon,
it could be as if I never
abandoned my island.
If I close my eyes,
the sound of the wind among the branches
framing the moon above me
could be my island palm trees.
With a cool kiss from the ocean waves.
If I let myself,
I could go back
[Perhaps, this time, I will stay…]
(In response to dVerse Prompt: Poetics: Wishful Thinking)