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FOR CINDAI dreamed I was an angelstanding in a tree ... No dime store tinsel doll but heavy-winged, laden with responsibility. I stretched and turned, rustling leaves. Then drifted slowly down, damp feathers curved resisting air towards once familiar ground. Weary now, my shoulders ache with weight of heavy wings (and heavier burden of watching, caring for grounded cousin beings). The vivid world creeps in ... A sense of air, the distant sound of bees. I turn my head and there: catch scent of rich sweet peas. My knees buckle - human joy, unimpinged by flight, rushes fully in. Unsettled, my spirit passes through a place of dark and light. The garden turtle cranes one eye over the tiny pond. His wrinkled neck a stem, leathery head a bud nodding like a frond. The water's skin, silken as the covering of an eye, shivers as a peony petal drifts; perfection shifts like a soundless sigh ... Goldfish lips, puckered like a child's, unfearing and unfeared, rise to touch the petal. Turtle head quick as an oiled wink: blossom at his chin a crimson beard. I laugh! The sound startles me - And all of the garden, every leaf. How long since I've spoken? Or wept? Or felt unbounded belief? The hot whisper of unbidden tears ... Or am I, am I dreaming? Can honeysuckle sweet be dreamed, or hollow-bone weariness or the living sense of seeming? I dreamed, I dreamed ... I dreamed I was an angel, standing in a tree. And every time that Cinda passed she shared a bit with me. Copyright 2000 Ann Parker |