Uncharted Trails

we travel on a large raft each night
and dream on little bits of knowledge
about ourselves; about who we've
been and who we might still become.
At this point in time (and perhaps,
then, this point is a mid-life marker),
we know that our sheets
do not have to be laundered
each week, that towels do not
have to be washed each day,
that we desire to find our way
into right livelihood or maybe
that is something we must create;
we accept that challenge too.
we talk of our shared dreams often
and I suspect there are still some glimpses
of light that burn only within the depths
of our cells or at the borders of our
chromosomes, however incomplete.
we both have dreamed of wearing
camping/adventure gear to our jobs (i.e.,
Horny Toad). We learn of this odd,
collective dream on a recent trip to
Midwest Mountaineering (and you once
thought you were too "buttoned up" for me).
I say to you,"well, that is information."
You smile, knowing what I mean
because I once emailed you about the
guy I wildly danced with at Bastille Day.
I thought he was a road I might take.
He was the type of guy I used to date.
He wore a messenger bag slung over
his side and didn't own a car, only
a bike. He told me that he was an
Art Preservationist and somehow,
somehow, that bit of knowledge
made me cry. You emailed me
back that this was "information" for
me to observe, but not necessarily act
upon. This was just weeks before
we started dating. You knew then
what you know now--that I have a
"threadbare gypsy soul" and you
accepted it along with my propensity
to move furniture around the house
each month. You watch me unpack
ideas. You add in your own. They
mingle like aged cheese and wine,
like green tea and chocolate. The
alchemy of our combined dreams
resting on our pillows, keeping us
on our raft drifting through these--
our uncertain days, with the
uncharted trail stretched wide.