Dreams Crossing

I brake for dreams. I do. Waking dreams, I mean. My nocturnal dramas come and go at will. They roam freely during the hours of darkness. No, I’m talking about the waking dreams that dart into my mind with no forewarning, startling me into frantically braking my cerebral carousel lest I hurt the little dreamling.

I would be mortified, despondent, if I were to inadvertently crush a wayward dreamlet. Each is dear to me, precocious though these waking dreams may be. I never know when a dream may choose to scamper into mind. They’re random, rambunctious things, these daylight dreams of mine. I remain vigilant, ever shifting my attention from matters at hand to memories and reveries…waiting and hoping for a glimpse of any sweet and precious dream...for each brings delight, or a sigh, or a smile of remembrance of pleasures past.

What is the stuff of these dreams, you may ask? Well, they wouldn’t mean much to anyone but me. A partial inventory of dream inspirations includes a green house, sweet red wine, grilled steaks, soft kisses, freckled shoulders, aromas and emollients, songs resonating on a late-winter day, chocolate-covered strawberries teasing sensitive nipples, rain falling gently outside open windows, a taxi ride, whispered promises, smoldering eyes, footsteps in an atrium, sunflowers, rolling prairies, hash browns, a beautiful young boy, a sun so bright it pierces the eye, mud-caked shoes, lacquered toe nails, a shower head too low for comfort, a rear view on an escalator, a disarming dog, a ghost ship, a poem or two and tulips (there are more…many, many more)...things ordinary made extraordinary. Dreams begging to be savored all the more knowing, as I do, that they are fated to disappear someday into oblivion.

As I said, I brake for dreams.

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