hard-work in those dreams

Hey, you worked hard in those dreams!

Setting down on impossible plazas -  all wind and tight spaces,

attempting to coax the Charlie Chaplin gamine:

me in my ballet- slippered feet, rose-torn dance clothes.

How you saw me and it coming; impossible to define, describe.

A girl being chased by that 10,000 watts of blue-volts -

too much wattage -

you knew too well could burn and steal -

so easily stop as start the heart.

You reached out your arm from some helicoper and I took, I clung,

even then, I did so because your eyes were my eyes

 they seemed to beg me to do and whatever it was then I would do for you..

In other dreams likewise, you rescue me: washed up on beach, the tide crashing,

my body visible from your post where the beam of the lighthouse

(in my dream, this is where you live - you are the keeper of light;

you alone signal the warning - Careful; there is danger here.

Yet somehow, I find my way always against such such odds.

My legs suddenly heavy; unable to walk.

You carry me, old-movie style,

to the inside of your tower where we sit and again

you warm my hands blowing soft then hard on each pale palm

until they are warm in yours....

you -  offering blanket after blanket after blanket to stave off the chill. 

I am grateful for this: did you know?

Could i even thank you then, or were my eyes fixed and locked?

Tell me this though, the picnic we went on ~ that dream ~

the orchard heavy with fruit, the pears, so beautiful, the SouthWest breeze,

how light everything was in that dream until the seizures began.

You set me down on a blanket, stroked back my hair...

Do you recall? You told me ~

Shhhh, if you do not sleep, you will not have bad dreams, ~

then you said it again, only the next time in French.

It was the last thing you said.

I traced it back when I awoke: ancient Hebrew expression.

You so kind then: I knew I had I officially ruined our picnic.

Before I could say more, you slid a slice of ripe pear

between my already-always honey-stickied lips.

I remember how you smiled to see such sweetness,

how the bees hung like mobiles & danced a ballet above our heads-

such gentle buzzing Italians -

how the apple-blossom tree gave her pale

scented petals to the warm summer breeze.

How rich and how blesssed we have been.