Content

… rantings of a depressive procrastinator. Did I mention, I write? …

Dreams fly away

The pregnant abundance of late summer harvest:
apples in newspapers layered in sawdust
lay on the ledge in the dark of the cellar
potatoes and onions – dry near the barn

Lavenders, rosemary, mint hang in string-bound
bundles on nailheads in high kitchen rafters
the corn’s in, the hay’s in, canning is finished.
The rake’s put away. Summer is done.

My joints stiff and achy
but thankful for plenty
I rest with arms folded
lie back in the chair — feel the sun
warm my temples, to rest and to dream
to dream and to dream to rest and to dream

My dreams blow and swirl like a torrent of leaves:
                    stack, pool and pile up
                    whisper behind me
                    and catch on the hedge
                    dreams swell into heaps
                              beneath the magnolia
                              in spots I can’t see near
                              an imprudent ledge.

My dreams blow around
                    like smoke from wood ashes
                    after the tendrils have vanished
                    and gone. Smell of stone undersides
                    some autumn afternoon
                              again, when the wind flicks
                              sucks down the chimney-pot
                              steals me from dreams
                              shakes me awake.

I remember the harvest, its plenty, the hours,
hard rungs of ladders, the baskets, the rake.
I feel the hot blisters, the ache in my arches.
Dreams, like wild birds, fly away.
Sleep is done. Dreams fly like birds. Fly away
and are done.

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