Teleology

Here's a poem written "stream of consciousness" style.

In the fields the summers last all year.
Banished are the bitter winters
that ate the skin off a man’s nose.
Sweet scented winds came after
the last of the ices melted away. We lie
in the tall grass some evenings naming
shooting stars; Luna, Stella, Pip, Gregory.
We drink honeysuckle tea on the porch
Saturday afternoons counting the crowns
on the treetops growing around our land.
At night we sleep in our open house, the walls
having been torn down long ago, with our bed
facing west so we can watch the sunset.
Music filters down from the mountaintop
crooning us to sleep. We dream of the other lives
we used to lead and shudder in our sleep.
We awake sometimes in a cold sweat
but then remember it was all just a dream.
We laugh, wrap our arms around each other,
and drift along like the flowing river, content
to be exactly what we are now.