There is always a little fire when I dream…

There is always a little fire when I dream…
I am irresistibly drawn to it…
I stare endlessly at the iridescence of its red throat…
Watching its embers rise like balloons.

Around this fire everything seems curious…
It makes me wonder who I am…
You know, in my dreams I can be anyone…
I choose to be a small yellow dog with short legs.

Sometimes I feel dreams are not myself…
They are like the tide bringing ashore the good and the bad…
There are styrofoam cups and empty plastic bottles…
Together with the glorious seashells.

My job, by the order of my author…
Is to return to my primal self…
To be a pattern for this world…
And each morning, when the nighttime fire fades to a crimson stain…
Tell myself, there is nothing I can’t do.

No, dreams are not a trick of the light…
Even though when we are in one, we don’t know where we are…
They are where we join the one vast wind…
And dry ourselves of our dampness.

I love you,

Annie