I wish these dreams were solid.
The answers would lie before me,
easy as counting matchsticks
in the dark. Setting them ablaze
would warm me, the orange flicker
cupped gently in my hands.
I can feel them try, tilting and unstable,
untouchable between this uncertainty
and real. They do not come from logic
but from another place, carved
out of starlight, sparkling and blue.
Eventually they will fade into nothing.
The left-brained wolf dismisses them,
fears the solitude, the emptiness in the wind.
Copyright 2012 Louise Hastings