This Strange Dream

I dreamed I saw you flying

high above a mountain

in a very blue sky.

You rose up on a plume of warmth

then wafted slowly towards the earth.

You landed in a forest by an ancient tree.

I dreamed you sat to wait for me.

I came as light

filtering through the leaves,

falling across your spirit.

Then I became a woman.

My hands became powerful

and I began to gather in the strength of things.

Then you became a woman.

You spread your arms

and crimson flowers spilled from your breasts.

We walked until we found a river.

The river flowed out from you,
to its end,

which was me.

We bathed often and were clean.

I became seed and sun and rain.

You became earth.

And when again we stood upright,

in bodies molded from your own clay,

the river was still there.

But it was swollen and dark

and it carried the corpses of things

we had drowned.

I felt the pain of that.

And I feel the pain even now,

awake so long

from this strange dream

of petals

and mystery

and love.

(February 1987, Wanakena, NY)