Every sound counts, my mother said.
I had this dream the night before thanksgiving. It's a little muddled now with time...
I was on my way somewhere through a large building that had the feel of a school or government building -- somewhat austere, tile floors, metal stair cases, white walls, dim greenish light. I walked through hallways, twisted through stairwells, took short elevator rides, and finally ended up near the roof. I went into a small store that in part sold supplies--prepacked meals, kites, outdoor equipment--and also allowed permits. I wanted to permission to go outside, upstairs.
Finally outside, I was in a park area (perhaps on the roof ) surrounded by trees and dirt paths. There were a few hut kiosks selling food, and it was cloudy out, vague dim yellow cast light. I met Micah sitting at a metal picnick table. He said the lentil soup was tasty and I should try some.
I had the sense of a large park around us and a foresty area. A friend of mine who explores abandonments and does night photography was out there exploring some outbuildings or huts that were small and uninhabited. Possibly he was flying kites. I didn't see him but I knew this. After I woke up I realized that the reason this person randomly shows up in my dreams is because he never has any dreams himself (a fact that he told me via ichat a few weeks ago irl.) Still in the logic of dreams, I decided that I was having dreams for him, or that he wasn't remembering the dreams but showing up in others' dreams as proxy. This makes the sense of a shamanic dream world, though not any logical sense in a Western science framework. It's a mystical explanation but one that's soothing--because otherwise it's a little strange that he shows up randomly, occasionally in my dreams like this...I don't see him or if I do it's peripheral to my purpose. And it's unusual to me because typically I dream up imaginary people or close friends, not acquaintances.
Anyway, next I was in a classroom or meeting with other people. Before the event started, the leader or teacher started talking casually with us and reciting a quote that had struck her. It was as if she had seen it somewhere in the stairwell -- in this world, Google sometimes was used to show literary quotes or phrases or ads in the building at random places, so you'd see them as you walked around.
The phrase she recited was, "Every sound counts, my mother said." It struck me as familiar as if I'd also seen it in the staircases. The the teacher pulled out small scraps of paper with writing on them. They were poems that people had sent her or submitted for a publication. I realized that the phrase was from a poem that I had written, and I started reciting the next couple lines that I could remember. The teacher found the scrap of paper with the poem on it and said that it was from a different poet.
But I explained what the poem was a bout and that I had in fact written it years ago.
Then I woke up. The poem was in fact something I wrote years ago:
Lilies
Five
Each distinct sound counts
my mother said. Her
voice echoes like rain
settling on the lake.
She rests with lilies.
Seven
The flowers my father chose
were white. Red suited her best;
my writing betrays her too:
All I have left are these words -
soil thudded on blossoms,
rain splashes the stone fruit trees
forming streams along the road.
Five
He won’t speak of her:
lilies burn the lawn,
The apricots bloom.
Blackbirds collect twigs
and sing in haiku.