DUST by Dorianne Laux

DUST

Dorianne Laux

Someone spoke to me last night,

told me the truth.  Just a few words,

but I recognized it.

I knew I should make myself get up,

write it down, but it was late,

and I was exhausted from working

all day in the garden, moving rocks.

Now, I remember only the flavor ~

not like food, sweet or sharp.

More like a fine powder, like dust.

And I wasn't elated or frightened,

but simply rapt, aware.

That's how it is sometimes ~

God comes to your window,

all bright light and black wings,

and you're just too tired to open it.

Edited by Roger Housden

Throughout history, men and women have been receiving nocturnal artistic expressions and insights.  It can be a voice, an image, or a sound that prompts the growth of seedlings, if we but remember to water the soil.

Upon awakening, the memory floats closely by, but by the time we brush our teeth, only fragments remain.  Try as hard as we will, the connecting dots elude us.

We all experience times when we are busily about our day when someone mentions the smallest thing and it triggers the vague memory of something we had just dreamed that very morning.  Slowly, bits and pieces return to our memory.

Today we are offered texting, tweeting, face booking, emailing, and long distance calling.  For me, the night time communication laced within our dreams is my favorite form of all.