Dream of the Rose
J.T. Ledbetter
In the dream I watch from the shade
of the forest as a rose
in the center of the bright circle
the sun has drawn onto the dying grass
lifts its petals
then drops them one by one
among the golden leaves, scenting the morning air
as names and faces fall like pearls into my waking hands
and I go through the moments of my day touching
the outlines of my dream the way you look away
from a star to see it clearly,
until last light catches in the tall trees
and faces in the street disappear in evening shadows,
turning a darkened corner, or eating alone
at a table by the window
until night calls them home to wait the terrors
of their rooms.
And sometimes, when I cannot sleep,
I go to the window and press my body against
the cold glass, where my face stares back
from the dark barns and dead fields,
and watch the wind toss leaves and petals
into the dark sky
until sleep takes me,
the heavy curtains billowing into my room
bringing the distant scent of roses,
and the dream I carry with me as cross, as breath.
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