The sun,
passing,
scatters silver coins in the treetop
or maybe from the white galleon,
speeding
across blue sky,
cloud-sailors pity me,
sitting
on this June morning,
land-bound in enchantment,
praying
release from the illusion
that here-and-now is real,
convincing
me their sky-voyage is all that matters,
cast their coinage overboard in hope,
procuring
my passage.