In my dream, Atlas shook beneath the cold cosmos.
I walked years to find him,
Wiped salted strain from tired eyes,
And pressed a warm palm against his chest.
I retold the sacred stories of others
Who’d suffered greatness.
Spinning the wheel three times, I offered my bow
Of dreams to hold him. He accepted.
The stars passed over him,
No heavens came thundering down
While he savored the lightness of his being
And he started to sing.
Rested, he took back his greatness
And held up the sky, again.