Daydream

Daydream

I have a summer home—
I go there in winter and
sometimes fall.

But when I do,
I get right
back up
again.

Falling in and out,
all, that is, around
and about.

Finding myself
by, that is, the cracked
open door.

Wondering
what waits, that is, with
the other side,

then flying by
peddling my feet,
that is, and falling.

But when I do,
I get right
back up
again.

That is, when
someone will
touch my arm
and quietly ask
a one-word
question:

my
first
name.