A Dialogue with Dreams
In the drought, where shadows of sunshine play,
A prophecy of self I saw along the way.
It said, “Where’s the poet who dared to dream?”
“Bright star in the sky,” I replied, “you’re not what you seem.”.

“Hither, hither, love, to the myths, to their keep,
would you transform into a daisy and in silence sleep?
Are you a thing of beauty, eternal and bright?”
It asked. “Do you shine through the darkness, defying the night?”

I chastised back, calling divination’s bluff!
And joy—the sun in shame—fled, modern love is rough.
“Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow,” I say,
For life, like an epistle, winds every way.

A party of lovers dances through the air,
their laughter echoing, weightless as they fare.
“Fill for me a brimming bowl of grace,”
I say, as Apollo’s hymn fills this sacred place.

The pot of basil on the windowsill stays,
A reminder of dreams and bygone days.
In the basil fields, where gatherers stray,
I stood tip-toe upon a little hill that day.

Hoe lines carve the story, bold and true,
Hyperion’s vision shining through.
“Asleep! O sleep a little while, white girl!
In Faery Fancy, let dreams like petals uncurl”

Apollo’s father bellowed into the air,
As I found myself rooted, a dedication to the love we dare.
An impromptu answer to Apollo and the Graces:
“I will find beauty in all life’s spaces.”

And as the day fades, a dialogue begins,
Between the poet’s heart and the mind, it spins.
For where’s the poet, if not in the dream,
Where love and sorrow end the drought when tears stream?