Dreaming in Red

Like a cat, you are drawn to red.
Morning glories on the fencepost.
Roses on the trellis.

Red lives in your dreams,
which are lightly populated.
The one you love, Rarely anyone else,
and if they show up, you are always surprised.

In your dreams, there is red paint,
Red gingham tablecloths and napkins.
Often the sky is red. the color of warning

and passion. Oh yes. A harlot’s lipstick,
a woman’s dress, blowing in the wind,
always just out of reach.

Your dreams have wind and sound and perfume.
Now and again, there is music, a soundtrack,
but more often the tinkling of temple bells.

Never seen, but heard,
Contributing to the mood. Something holy.
Often there is no story, only journey, scenery,

and oh so often, red. Everything,
Flowers, dress, your hair,
blowing in the wind,

Transient.
Impermanent.
Too like-life for your liking.

About this poem.

I dream incredibly vividly, almost always startled when I wake up again in this world. My last dream this morning was full of reds. And like most dreams, full of things that made no sense, and yet, somehow did.

Tom