What of the dark that never receives light?

Is it broken by not knowingness

or is it the germination ground for the seeds of kindness

unborn in the amniotic fluid of what his ancestors never knew

that trust, not looking behind or in front

just the resting in the swivel chair of dreaming?

I fell in love once, twice, maybe eight times

each a dance, dip here for romance

sashay, swing, double click your heels to the yellow brick road of are you my dreamboat

then remembering that I forgot to dream a new dream

unwrinkled by my mother’s wishes for me

liberated from my grandmother’s unanswered quest for freedom

this one finds faeries hiding in teapots

orange blossoms, branch and all nestled in a coffee mug

and a table crowded with nicoise olives

cracked pepper croccantini

and Saint Angel brie

triple cream

the bubbles beckon of stories

my soul hasn’t forgottten

Scheherazade lays awake counting off details on her fingers

remember the tree trunks entwined in moss

they have a clue encoded in their DNA

for Hurley learned the language of the trees from G.G.

and think again about the labyrinths

for the roots of Redwoods trace a portal far deeper than your mind knows now

Dreaming is what’s called for

dreaming and the wide open sands of Wadi Rum

You’ll recall from a past life that the sand storm you’ve written

doesn’t belong in the Atlas Mountains

perhaps though you’ll find traces of unfettered loneliness in the heart of Ulises and that will cause the grain of sand

to find a wave

and a storm

and the near last gasp of breath

until Dahlia the magic storyteller pulls him through

I never wonder about my heart though love is elusive
there is a story for every ache

every red thread

this triangle of a spool woven from my hands and across each foot

I am told I was a healer who also endured hunger but not disease

but the royals favored me for saving one

this secret is no longer hidden in the dungeons of Carcassonne

now she is free, as I am, to love selectively

and without condition