Last Night I Dreamed
I tied the tether to my wrist and sat on the ground.
My heart was full, not of fear and grief, but of joy.
The wolves fell silent as they arrived, their eyes silvered by the moon.
I reclined full length upon the grass so that they would know there was only flesh to feed on, not also human terror and regret.
Having lived among men and women born of Adam and Eve, I had no dread of wolves.
If they crossed the meadow to what I offered, I do not know, for I woke.
And so I’ve had four blue dreams, all in four nights.
Somehow I know there will not be a fifth, just as I know that these have been more than dreams. If they are visions, they are not the revelations given to saints, for I am no saint.
I wonder, however, if I am meant to be guided by the blue dreams as my life unfolds—and one day find the freedom and deep happiness that have thus far eluded me.
I think it best never to speak of them, but write about them in a letter to myself, seal it in an envelope, and hide it very well.
Such precious dreams are fragile and may turn to dust if shared.