October

I dreamed of the smell of October,

reaching out in heavy sleep

to touch the red leaves on the grass,

feeling them drift against my skin,

breathing in the places that are usually

so distant.

I dreamed of an ash covered lawn

I must cross to,

past long buried shoeboxes

and smoldering fallen branches,

taped up windows

and un-growable grass.

I dreamed of the static shoreline.

Rock meets water,

water lifts the sky,

stretches of sand push back

against three hundred years of

insistent crossings,

only a façade of yielding,

freckled with crushed,

unspent sand dollars and

hopelessly tangled seaweed.

I dreamed of a dim gallery,

white-tiled floor shifting,

black curtained portraits hung,

jaded art un-transfixed,

shaded amber lights burning

in compact caged air,

domed doorway far ahead.

A redesigned reverie,

leading to a most beautiful place.