A Dreamer Dreamed

When I was an old man
inside a dream,
I blessed my olive trees
with tender mortal care.

Deep within my grove,
I could hear the sea below,
the endless sky above,
shepherds singing
on the verdant slope,
women washing clothes,
maids naked in the stream,
plows praying to the soil,
the honey-making bees,
children being born,
wagon wheels made of wood,
the market�s pleasant hum.

These things my olives
heard as well.

I witnessed their patience,
understood their longing,
caressed their supple limbs
laden with fruit,
my neck and arms perspiring,
the bare skin of my body
glistening and brown
like good strong leather,
scented and mad,
lined with many roads.

All summer long,
I did not go home
until the stars were out.

Behind me,
the trees whispered
and sighed.

I ate but little then,
in solitude a cup of wine,
some bread and cheese,
fragrant all and bittersweet.

When morning came,
I was wrapped in the arms
of an ancient dream,
a dreamer dreamed
inside a dream.

I hurried out to find
my olives dreaming me,
full, ripe, about to fall.

April 15, 2006

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