Patterns

My dreams
have always been
full of stars,
the kind above
that everyone sees
and those forgotten
on the ground
one cannot see
so easily–

Pure white
apple petals
scattered by March
bluster or pale
pink cherry ones,
twinkling among
the deep green
blades of grass
and silver dew
randomly changing
constellations at the whim
of the wavering wind.
Sand colored pebbles
and quartzite
like diamond
sprinkled in the tar
road running past
the family home.

The darting
minnows swishing
like comets
over the rainbow
sandstone bed
of the brook beneath
the old tree house.

The confetti strewn main
street of my childhood
after the Christmas parade
and before Christmas
shoppers flooded
its narrow passage
bringing home
to many another child
heartaches lustrous
under bright colored foils.

Such are the subtle stars running
through all our lives, shimmering
through all our dreams
collectively blinding
light on what should remain
dark.

The first dream
I can recall
was on a breathless
late summer night
and I was wearing
nothing but skin,
free of gravity
and flying
up over the roof.

Then lightly landing
on sun warmed tar
black shingles
comforting
cold trembling toes
I took a seat
on the peak and hugging
knees sat patiently
watching the stars
march across
the night sky.

At moonrise,
I floated higher
still until I was part
of that night swimming
with flickering fish
in the dark waters
above the moonlight
and well beyond
anyone’s reach.