It’s a matter of folding. Folding back the clouds to expose the hard white nipple of the sky. She arches her back, finds the curve at the edge of the world, then relaxes, folding one galaxy into another, folding one dream into the one that has just begun. The great sleep is here. Close your eyes. Those dogs barking, they are not in your dream. The lights reflected in the cars spinning past are, also, not in your dream. The large orange cat, the blown-over trash can, the silent wind chimes – none of these are in your dream. The hard white moon, however, is most definitely in your dream. Perhaps mine too.
There are three Michaels in my life, one from my early life, one from my later life, and my son, who is named after both of them. The early Michael had a theory about Christmas lights. He said that the reason we are compelled to string bright colored lights around our trees and across our homes is because we have lost the ability, or no longer take the time, to see the subtle beauty of winter. That thought has always stayed with me, never more so than now, in this year where so much has been lost, even beauty.
Let your lips taste the night air, trace the edge of the trees against the sky with your fingertips, breathe as silently as possible. We are here to touch, to kiss the soft bark of the cedar, to gaze into the banks of the river, to get our bodies down upon the earth and put our ear against the rise and fall of her breathing. It is time to gather time against the moment when the great sleep becomes the great awakening. When dreaming saves your life.
I am smiling. I am wide awake, moonlight flush on my skin. I am winterberry bramble on the riverbank, I am honeylocust, I am sumac, I am creeping jenny and wild grape. I am both sides of the wind, each point on the compass, all roads to everywhere.
The truth is, I ain’t nothin’ but a dream.