I dreamt of us, together, old and weathered,
rocking in a porch swing,
gnarled hands holding one another;
your eyes still soft.
I dreamt of us, together, under Asian skies
green rolling hills spread out,
a splash of blue in the form of a pagoda,
beckoning us to come forward,
our destinies or purpose,
peaceful in turbulent times.
I dreamt of us, together, and of a sun drenched room,
a golden glow seeking shadows,
and we, nestled and showered by the light,
a nurturing closeness in each other’s arms.
Dreams they are.
I don’t dream now,
or at least the morning light
steals the memory
as I drift from sleep to wakefulness,
wrapped in the quilt you made for me,
I push them away
like I’m breaking up a bar fight,
pushing with my full strength and dreading the punch;
I wish them away
like a wish for a circle of light while walking
a dark, city street;
I run from them
as if a monster pursues me,
intent on stealing my soul or my heart or my mind.
Sheets damp from my sweat:;
crisp winter air cutting through the cracked window.
Memories of dreams I may have had drift in the draft.
Captured like dust, they float,
turn, and reflect
In the draft, dreams drift
as the wind chills me.
Copyright 2003 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.