“If only we could write poems while we
dream!!!” she laments. That night, caressed in sleep’s
sacred universe, her dreameyes can see
beyond sight, subconscious sensing what keeps
body, soul and cosmos within her cell’s
endless center, light beyond reason yet
entire insight. Her dreamhand starts to tell
all stories (even those the gods forget)
through her dreamquill’s strokes, its transparent ink
streaming great words on pearl cloud, her phrases
flashing to acrylic portraits—not think-
ing, only knowing as she writes. Traces
of angels jetstream past, chorus glory
of her rhymes: their neverending story.
Roger Armbrust
October 25, 2014
