find me where winter waters flow honey thick. where ferns weave baskets cradling colored stones. listen for songs dripping down cave walls, tiny fairy feet dancing delicately on crushed shells, soft foamy voices calling your name. follow them. do not despair as earthen gravity releases you. let go. reach through murky darkness until our fingertips merge. hold tight as our toes taste stars. I’m beside you watching our bubbly breath connect inside and outside. beautifully untethered.
When children are small you can sprinkle nutritional yeast on millet and tell them it’s fairy dust. With a word, it becomes so. Such is the power of language. What if we could do the same with our dreams? Here’s a poem and flash fiction rambling on about such things. Let me know what you think.
little shadow
perched on a purple wall staring at my sleeping child
what do you see shadow bird?
do you see. see like me?
my grandfather became cloud grandmother became butterfly.
I sit in her chair. I sing with his voice.
what will be left for her when I,transform?
maybe I become you. maybe I watch from a wall.
flying with one word. staying with another. word.
dream me alive. over and over and over. clove and nutmeg. owl spreading wings.
forest hears, nothing.
another dream
Transform
One night during a dream of chaos and war a woman gives birth to a baby with hair the color of fresh snow. The baby blinks at the woman with eyes as green as ancient ferns and coos like a dove. What if instead of forgetting the baby when she woke the woman decides to name her Mabel and she becomes as real as coffee.
The woman dresses the dream baby in clothes the color of fresh marigolds and wears her close to her chest in a carrier woven of the softest wool. She takes the baby out into the rain and her laugh becomes lightning. The world sparks around them and glows brighter.
The plants in the woman’s house grow with the baby—greener and taller, greener and taller until the woman is forced to cut through them with a large knife, like an explorer in a jungle. She and the baby laugh at the silliness of it as birds make nests in her living room and a family of rabbits discovers the perfect place to live within her closet.
They spend most days outdoors so Mabel can make the grass thicker, the trees taller, and the flowers bolder. The neighbors don’t know what’s making their gardens grow and the woman decides not to tell them. Not everyone believes as strongly as she does and she fears their disbelief will pull the child away.
When Mabel starts walking the woman takes her outside in the middle of the night and upon seeing the full moon the child begins to sing. The tiny lilting notes cause the stars to dance and the moon to move closer and closer to the Earth. The woman knows this won’t go unnoticed and will have terrible consequences, but she hesitates to act because love defies logic and gravity. Love defies most things.
Mabel however makes the choice for her, wiggling out of her grasp and floating toward the moon. The baby with hair as white as snow returns back into the dream where she was born and the woman walks home alone. Her house feels different but she smiles the same because Mabel is as real as coffee and her physical absence changes nothing. She wraps herself in wool and dream walks to visit her child.
“If a picture is worth a thousand words, then the imagination is worth a thousand pictures.” —J.E.B. Spredemann
This week’s assignment for the 52 photo challenge was to photograph something meaningful to you. As it’s Christmas Eve, I decided to share some decorations around my house that hold meaning for me and my family.
I hope you enjoy these photos and you have a wonderful holiday.
He had a picture of me on his work desk. A boa constrictor wrapped around my neck. He’d say, “She wasn’t even scared.”
His framed pride didn’t match my fear, so I pretended.
Not a snake charmer, I learned to drink venom. Walk through glass. Palms up, always. Let me prove how good I am, like sweet orange trees. Climb. Take cover beneath my limbs, I’ll take all the blame. Sorry for the storm, for freezing pomegranate hearts. Orphan without warmth—I know.
Look, watch me spin so bright. Sing to the moon. Ride through a rice field, kick dust onto the snow-white cranes. See me create starlight babies with magical breath— lean in. Smell them. Part me. Part you. Us.
Branches. You see? Beautiful are the buds bearing your blue eyes.
Maybe you had to move away. Once, no twice. You needed to be further from this mess; this me.
Further and further. I see.
Neck, boa, constrict— my words press like sap pushing through bark. Not fearless, but what will too late feel like when words sit stuck inside. No, say it all. Look, do you see? “She wasn’t even
once I was sunkissed now, not kissed at all not here in this place where the winter moon wakes me singing tomorrows through mist through falling leaves through frost paintings no, not like that raven songs, not doves trinkets feathers bits of string touch my fingertips my lips icy secrets whispered deep into blanket forts no, not sunkissed not kissed at all still warm
masked moonlight wakes me pulling dreams backward, inward pulling body forward, outward five steps and I’m outside bare feet on weathered wood yes, moon, what do you want watch me descend, it says casting legato light across waves as sapient stars nod, blinking in agreement what else can I do but listen
opalescent ocean dances below sings softly of forgetting or is it forgiving maybe it wants me to bleed shedding mawkish memories dance, move, swing your arms let go, it calls can it be so simple
silver moon transforms briefly mimics sunlight before sinking below the waves below the horizon below my pained core with a final golden gasp it calls out to me yes, I hear you
folding, folding I tuck the words inside— my moonset gift swaying, swaying I rock with the waves under billowy blankets until morning comes
Note: Both of these photos are of the moon setting at around 1 a.m. If you look closely in the second one you might see stars.