“The dews drop slowly and dreams gather;” —W.B. Yeats
She gathered dreams like berries in a basket,
grasped them, sorted them, sweet and tart,
matching dreams to dreamers,
sending them to lovers and schemers
some fragrant and ripe, like the fruit
but that wouldn’t suit,
Some dreams were like the fruit for jam or pies
mixed together, cooked, filled with hints of other things, or lies,
or perhaps words for the wise—
sometimes she even prophesized.
She went about her task with thoroughness,
not obsessed or oppressed,
it simply was her endeavor
she existed always and forever.