Flowers and bees dream. And worn silver tree stumps
where mushrooms sprout when it rains,
and lichen on red rocks that stand like sentinels.

Lilies of the valley carry me anywhere in time,
and the perfumed dreams of peonies overwhelm me,
like the dreams of unhappy parents or kindly friends.

All these speak to each other in dreams,
and answer my dreams with theirs.

Old prairie fence posts have barbed wire dreams
that tremble with the wind and sing of journeys.

Colts have hop-kicking dreams, and aging horses
have gentle, aching dreams that make me cry.

I love the dreams of dolphins and eagles most
because they carry gods and demons on their backs.

I used to fear the monsters in my dreams,
but a wild one in my basement was more afraid of me
than I was of him, and wept when I said goodbye.

Even when we die, we don’t stop dreaming.
We dream on, as water, as dust, as boiling rock, as bone.