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It seems to me that dreams are only snow that gently spirals down to touch the ground to rest before they melt at dawn and flow away, forever lost. To search around the country won't reveal their hidden face---- it only turns up scraps: remembered things that formed a greater whole. The daily race outruns their lazy dance on eagle wings, forever pushing higher, faster, far away from darkened trees and moonlit plains. But pathways too near the sun will hold no bar to keep its wings from dripping waxen rain. Some days I look upon those melted dreams and wonder: dare I fly the same extremes?
Something occurred to me as I was writing this poem. These dreamsnows are falling from a height, so the sun should be melting them. Just a demonstration that anything is possible within the realm of dreams.
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