I wake up from rivers running through my dreams. When I say dreams, I don't mean ten impossible things I have set my heart upon. When I say set my heart on, I'm not casting my heart overhead, tossing it up like a grappling hook, hoping it will catch on the best. When I say I hope for the best, I haven't abandoned the rest — that which I live toward each day, one day much like another. When I say one day is much like another, I mean every day carries its sorrows, I can breathe any day to gladness, each day is a spring of new beginnings. When I say new beginnings, it begs the question of old beginnings, broken ones limping through deep ruts, world without end. When I say world without end, I wonder how long these dreams will pulse through my heart, new water flowing each moment down the river, bearing its sorrow, carrying its hope.