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Dreams:
All night
the dark buds of dreams
open richly.
In the center 
of every petal
is a letter, and you imagine
if you could only remember
and string them all together
they would spell the answer.
It is a long night,
and not an easy one—
you have so many branches, 
and there are diversions—
birds that come and go,
the black fox that lies down
to sleep beneath you,
the moon staring
with her bone-white eye.
Finally you have spent
all the energy you can
and you drag from the ground
the muddy skirt of your roots
and leap awake 
with two or three syllables
like water in your mouth
and a sense
of loss—a memory
not yet of a word, 
certainly not yet the answer—
only how it feels
when deep in the tree
all the locks click open,
and the fire surges through the wood,
and the blossoms blossom.
— Mary Oliver

Dreams: All night the dark buds of dreams open richly. In the center of every petal is a letter, and you imagine if you could only remember and string them all together they would spell the answer. It is a long night, and not an easy one— you have so many branches, and there are diversions— birds that come and go, the black fox that lies down to sleep beneath you, the moon staring with her bone-white eye. Finally you have spent all the energy you can and you drag from the ground the muddy skirt of your roots and leap awake with two or three syllables like water in your mouth and a sense of loss—a memory not yet of a word, certainly not yet the answer— only how it feels when deep in the tree all the locks click open, and the fire surges through the wood, and the blossoms blossom. — Mary Oliver

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