April 3, 2018

Dreams are fascinating, and I wish I knew reliable techniques of recalling them more often. While sometimes seemingly mere flights of fancy, they can be a way for the wordless emotional brain to collaborate with the narrative self to reveal truths that would otherwise lie dormant. For instance, last night, the truth that, barring traumatic injury, you generally can't stick your toe in your own butthole.

Thank, conscious and subconscious minds! Great teamwork.
More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out
of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor's
almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving
their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate
sky of Spring rains, it's the greening of the trees
that really gets to me. When all the shock of white
and taffy, the world's baubles and trinkets, leave
the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,
the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin
growing over whatever winter did to us, a return
to the strange idea of continuous living despite
the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,
I'll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf
unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I'll take it all.