The Language of Dreams

In the space between
the dark leaf-fall of night
and frosted dawn,

an ancient bird flies
a path between flower-clouds
and thick-breathed river,

whose milk-chocolate beach listens
to the fiddle-wind whispers
of the coming storm.

Here, we wait
for honeyed shots of light
and perfumed peace,

and if we can recall
how seasons cycle
blood red sinking into cool blue

diamond prisms and shadows play–
then we know the language of dreams —
where an ancient bird flies

beneath twinkling glow
skimming the surface
between yesterday and tomorrow.

The Oracle made me work for this one. Perhaps she senses how everything seems unsettled.

39 thoughts on “The Language of Dreams

  1. The robins and juncos are gathering the pear trees eating the last of the shriveled fruit. I think they’re looking for spring, which here in Michigan, the weather is not ready to give up the cold. Stunning poetry, as usual, Merril. ❤

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