They say in dreams a house is a metaphor for a life.
Windows open to the world, mysterious eyes seeking snowfall,
slush debris, snarls of auto travelers rushing into night.
Hidden inner rooms may appear, unsought buried treasure.
Deep within decorated walls, a smiling child painting with excrement.
Dimpling, she offers scent of flowers never known to earth’s earnest soil.
Silly dreams, silly imagery, skillful denying;
making much of
a molehill on alpine ground.
Mountains are metaphors for achievement.
Struggling like Sisyphus, discovering like Pythagoras
basic relationships on which to build.
Empires, like species of mystic birds
emerge from smoldered flame. Flogging slaves to
roll those rocks from imperial graves up the peaks of glory.
Like family, and its social cognates, enslave to stories:
“This is who we are.”
February snows through conflated years.
Fear was my ally, hailing me on, hugging
with glorious laughter, carrying unsure steps through
onerous trails. And those ebullient ecstasies of survival.
Drunk on the gold that surpasseth science or light.
Touch the cold sting, letting the song sing through me.
Feel the music? Abandon your amygdala to dance free
awhirl in a swirl of laughing snow?
In dreams, inchoate, unremembered, do we play in those
moments of bliss to keep us balanced, to give courage in a life
less lived, less honored?
Old, glazed-over eyes seek momentary solace, look long,
longingly, into a silly mist of snow beyond windows closed
securely against the cold. Dream world revealed,
in the interplay of eyes and mind.