First A Dream

In honor of all those celebrating Pisces birthdays . . .  and the homecoming of Neptune to Pisces for the first time in nearly 150 years . . .   may we all find the best of ourselves . . .  our compassion, our imagination and spiritual sensitivity . . .  as we navigate the depths of our dreams during this oh so watery time!

Dreamers interpret signs.
They know to fix their eyes
upon the sea as it defies description.
They note the mists, the spray,
without the urge to interfere,
without the need to further name
infinities of blues and greens and grays.
The gods reveal their secrets
to the few who wait with purpose,
those whose pure intentions
float unfettered to the surface,
those who learn to read then ride the waves.

Dreamers know their power
lies in understanding
where to send their prayers,
sensing who can stir the clouds
and who can reach and sooth
the stormy depths of rage,
perceiving who can spot the play of lights
that splatters on the distant wake
like a rain of sun upon the ocean pane.

Dreamers feel the value of descent.
They value Neptune’s boundless lead.
They dance the formless, downward dance,
the spiral that is fought and feared,
dreaded and desired.
They go where no mind’s gone before,
retrieve the lost that only they can find.
And when the gods assent, they sigh,
swell their gills like poems in progress,
and once more flex their fins.

It’s the strangest thing to be awake
as this hour breaks and then recedes,
a wave of purple ebbing
on a dark brown shore,
like blood drying on the skin
around a wound, a healing
almost hurting me.

Even as I watch the colors
change I’m not sure I believe
that depths so dark
can clear and shine and wash
the sand clean as a virgin
blushing as she lets her last defense
fall gently to the floor.

It is such a demonstration
of what happens when I’m dreaming,
of the sweeping changes I’ve been launching.
It is all that I can do
to hold the tears in place,
behind my eyes.

I’ve been so unconscious,
so ensconced in opaque sleep
I failed to see the bronze horizon
stretching past my shoulder
or the miracle of parting mists,
the shrinking violet that leaves
the land and sky and sea
a brilliant, open plain,
white and blue and green.