I dreamed of Steven Hawking

I dreamed I met Steven Hawking at Bluegrass Airport in Lexington, Kentucky
And I maneuvered his infirm body into a rental car and drove him southwest
From Lexington toward the palisades along the Kentucky River
And on up the hill from Asbury to Pleasant Hill, an old Shaker community,
Where those early pilgrim souls, descendants of John Bunyan, Milton and Donne,
Sought their Utopia in the verdant hills of the Bluegrass of Olde Kentucky.
Parking our vehicle in the blacktopped parking lot, I pushed him up
To the collection of simple Shaker buildings, still and dignified
And ended his journey in a broad green space between the buildings
Where the grassy field was bounded by white-washed wooden fences
And the invisible breezes of April blew against our faces.
Squatting on my knees, down before his wheelchair,
I stared into his corrected eyes and asked him to stop
The meandering of his mind for a brief moment
And feel for the soft touch, the prompting of his heart
And search for the presence of God, the Creator of his mind
And body and the beauteous hills rolling out around us.
The mechanism of creation might just then lead him to the mechanic there.