There’s a map of sorts—
a dreamscape
that tumbles out
of a box of celestial crayons
when you are born.
It’s a bewildering tangle
of squiggly lines
drawn by the flip-floppy flight
of butterflies.
The only person
who can read it
or follow it
is the squealing,
summer-soaked child
with a berry-stained mouth
and skinned knees
spinning in circles
under the bright
blue sky
with a compass
that points to
laughter and delight
in every direction
that lives
inside of you.