I. August
I dreamed of Jersey cows
their root beer colored deco eyes wide as my daughter’s wide as someday
when I explain about the moon and the waves and how a thing can pull another
in unseen directions in an endlessness that rewards human waiting. Even as we sleep.
Our waiting is encouraged by cycles, I point out, on this day. And drastic is best.
We’re made hopeful by the topic of transformation.
I dreamed of yogurt pooled in lava flows of tart at our feet
our heels and ankles anchored as we, sand-bound, wind-swept
re-spent a day at the beach leaning back against changeless charming sky, the sea
reaching forward, receding in mist hisses
audible dissolution of legendary lunar output
until something me broke through pulling something me and
without added effort of courage I woke up.
II. June
Since I can never know what Senta dreams even when she tells me
I will tell you in my own words.
Progress, momentum, and homecoming. And not necessarily in that order.
Watching the time in Seasons. Seeing this body.
When the urge to sort finds me I remind myself how I was born and belong
to transformation. Beyond which there’s only beauty and the sublime
and that big hug that Amma gives out at the convention center
oblivion promise of a falling where
plasma filled void muffles
shutting eyes
closed even against rose petals and jasmine in where
you hear the whole empty chamber of your voice
your sighs, and thoughts as deliberate as arrows.