Strange Dream

Rory slept, fitful beneath the crescent moon and winking stars shining through his window. He dreamed a cockroach slogged through his oatmeal before riding this spoon toward his mouth. He woke gasping, sure he heard small feet scrabbling across his birchwood floor. What was it?

Flashlight in hand, Rory got down on his knees and looked under his bed. Nothing there. As he rose the light washed the wall beneath the window and there he spied a small silhouetted figure clamoring onto the sill before jumping out.

Quick as a flash Rory was outside, his flashlight swinging wildly across the lawn in search of movement. There it was. A tiny figure heading to the coy pond at the edge of his yard where the forest began.

The leaves on the trees rustled a greeting as he neared. He ignored them and focused on the small body skimming across the water on the back of a fish. Rory’s flashlight illuminated the sprite as he reached the other side of the pond and stepped into the fairy garden his ex-wife had left behind. The tiny being turned, winked at Rory and disappeared beneath the nearest toadstool.

Rory woke, again. His feet were cold and the moon had shifted, but all was quiet except for the distant rustle of the trees.

He closed his eyes, resigned to counting sheep. And maybe a shepherdess with a cane too, just for good measure.

complicit

My husband drives and I spend the time gazing through the window. The beauty of long shadows on this late summer evening makes me weak. That, and heading out of town away from work and electronic tethers. 

The road curves and the view from a bridge affords a view not of the expected winding stream or placid lake with grassy shores but of a sea of green and golden corn, tassels rippling in a light breeze. The field rises and dips, shimmering as it recedes into the distance. 

It seems an act of magic, possible only by nature and imagination, a complicity of factors to make even the dying of a season a thing of beauty.

summer

cricket song sounds outside

my window

carried on air thick with

water gathered from

distant seas

while stars faintly glimmer

no more than ghosts of light

in the night sky

the trees are still

the city sleeps

Rising

Aquarius commands the beast to rise

and so bidden, it is born.

Element of water

elevates to air

forming shape and substance

shimmering in moonlight

rising to its god.

reaction

A child’s body

wrapped tight in

anxiety and insecurity

vibrates with the effort

of holding the world

intact.

circles

stitched circles on my quilt
spin off edges

unfurling thread teases

cat paws reach
furthering destruction
begun when all was new

The Plant in My Window

The dipladenia idles on

the window ledge

in my office.

Viny branches reach,

curling among the window blinds

and each other

intertwined like unsure hands.

This is its

third winter indoors.

The once lush plant now

drops leaves

turned yellow and spotty.

My husband thinks it is ill

due to a white spider

infestation.

I believe it is homesick

for its tropical environment where

warm temps and lavish water

nourish it daily.

I believe it is dying to be

outside beneath the sun and stars,

visited by mystic hummingbirds who

carry pollen on their

frenetic flights.

I believe it is ill with

impatience to resume the

life it knows.

It is like me.