Field.

 

We are but children living in a field of dreams.

 

Waiting.

Watching.

 

Trying to grasp one of the dreams that are always just out of reach.

We are not the dreams.

 

That's obvious.

But we are clover-like children.

Each of us our own.

 

Some of us are taller,

reaching for the Sun like it is our dreams,

always out of reach.

 

Some of us are shorter,

observing the ground up-close,

finding life's mysteries in each dirt particle.

 

All of us are each three-leaf clovers.

 

Not the exact same, 

but similarities are found.

I found a four-leaf clover.

 

Unique.

 

Others see her as just another three-leaf,

but I see her fourth leaf,

hidden from others.

 

We are but children living in a field of dreams.

We are not the dreams.

That's obvious.

 

I managed to finally grab a dream.

It was close enough to me.

The thing about living in a field of dreams, though,

is that the dreams can be grasped.

 

 

 

But you can only dream of it.