• Vol. 02
  • Chapter 09
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I dream of falling,
not down, but up
into the softness
he describes so well to me
because I cannot see,
so he calls colors things
I know by touch, like
my goose down pillow
on my bed that supports
my head at night when
I’m dreaming of flight
like the birds that we
hear singing in warm fields
where we go walking
before the sun sets.

Turn toward my voice,
he says. Feel the sun on your face.
It’s the brightest light I know.
None of this grassy field
about us would grow without
the sun’s light. He says.



I think the grasses
sleep at night like I do
but without the need of pillows;
that this Mother Earth beneath
my feet is their favorite bed.
I touch my face and feel
the sun. Soon my day
is done. We’ll eat and talk
before I go to sleep and dream
of falling up, not down,
off this earth that holds
my life in darkness. I can hear
Bach’s Cello Suites while
I float ever upward toward
the bright, light, sun.