I’m writing poems in my dreams.
“Write them down,” I nudge,
but, waking, they too swiftly fade,
hollow hoofbeats into the misty dawn,
and then they’re gone.
I’m visiting old lovers
in my dreams, as if, in death,
they now know how I cared,
how all would have been different
if only we had dared.
This is a beautiful reverie, Sherry. I know how fast both dreams and poems can flee, yet here you manage to cling to that feeling given to you, and share it with us. Your last lines are perfect for all of us who have arrived at the age of looking back. Thanks so much for playing, Sherry.
ReplyDeleteMy pleasure, Joy. It is a good challenge for wordy old wild woman, to pare things down to the essence.
ReplyDeleteOh, this is you at your best, Sherry. I love it.
ReplyDeleteWow, high praise, Shay. Thanks so much!
ReplyDeleteOh yes — the looking back and wondering what might have been. This poem is universal and poignant. Powerful, Sherry.
ReplyDeleteI think our dreams are in the same disappearing herd, Sherry ~
ReplyDeleteSuch an intense and powerful poem - i sense the need to write and the frustration of capturing our dreams
ReplyDeleteA wistful yet powerful short memoir in this one, Sherry. Very well done.
ReplyDeletePerhaps those dream poems are for the dead lovers to hear. This is really good writing Sherry. So good.
ReplyDeleteThere are times when dreams do not allow for rest, and those old lovers can be persistent too!
ReplyDeleteOh gosh Sherry, this is perfect melancholy, or reverie, or blueish verse of reviewing things done and undone. I love it. And I relate to that dream-state as well. Really great
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