Poem: The Dreaming

The Dreaming

She glanced to the window, watching leaves disco in the wind--

rustles along the wide path to the garden fence,

like the crinoline skirts of dancing ladies

and the wind sighed.

The chair she sat in-a rocking chair of cherry wood-

kept her safe within it's carved confines.

She sat with hands in her lap

and dreamed of wider places where there

were no garden gates-

of seas gasping against white, sandy shores

and sprays of foam roaring up

great gray cliffs,

screaming gulls overhead.

Dreamed of a starched white portico

facing a Greek island village-

all stairs, white cottages and cats lounging-

the sea a blue ribbon winding out.

Or THERE--

a small cafe in a village in Tuscany,

buried among green hills--

rich, dark coffee and a bright red door--

riding a bike through windy forgotten streets.

              Her home, both her safety net and her prison,

was kept clean and curtains drawn

so no one would come and see her face.

Her smiles, fleeting like shooting stars,

would melt you as ice in the sun,

but she seldom smiled anymore.

She sat-hands in her lap-

dreams floating through her mind,

listening to her life pass her by,

and still---she felt nothing--

her safety was also her box.

It kept her quiet-it kept her still-

it kept her.

Heather Lake