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,

Linda