The present doesn’t go with last night’s dream. My future rolls her eyes. Those older books Stare at me with their hostile, angry looks Suggesting that I’d not know what they mean.
My dragons are far kinder than they seem. We drink fresh water from the ancient brooks. We catch our fish with only magic hooks And what we eat becomes our sacred theme.
It’s not that I have nothing to confess. It’s only what I’ve done is far too small To bother you with details should I sin. I’m sure the bed you’ve made looks like a mess. I’m sure you also felt that you would fall, But here we are. And look! The morning’s in.
Linked to dVerse Poetics where Anmol is hosting with the art of confession.
The bookcases of one-by-six planed pine All screwed to dark but open basement beams Are how I feel the language of my dreams Twist hidden deep within each antique line.
I rarely read these books and none are fine And no one wants them anymore it seems. Like waters from some minds' now frozen streams They'd flow for someone’s eyes, perhaps for mine.
Sometimes when lost I find a letter there Recalling handwriting from someone dear Suggesting paths forsaken in the past. The words she wrote were reasoned well with care. The details I forgot are once more clear. The present waits then leads me home at last.
Linked to dVerse Poetics where Lillian is hosting with the theme of writing about something in your home that speaks to you and to last weeks’ Meeting the Bar with the sonnet theme.