Ordinary dreams are never clear–they are jumbles of this and that
As we sleep we walk in small places where the old gods used to roam
In that time long-before Christ came.
Those ancient gods of hills and woods and streams
We wander here and there in the dusk of our daily happenings, free from rituals, cities crowded with men
Where sometimes we walk thoughtlessly, as if we are kings, or fairies, or even riding on stars moving silently in the Universe
Sometimes we meet scary unknown things, which zip out of the air of our thoughts, rushing toward us like a demon felt only within the dark
Jerking awake, breathing like we are riding the wind—to realize we just dream.
Turning over…flipping the pillow to the cool side, we once more fall asleep and dream
A thoughtlessly as wee babe in a mother’s arms.
I hope your Sunday is a very good one!
Your friend on a western Colorado farm,