I dream different things as I grow older.

Gone are the rosy visions of a
white tulle gown and a grinning groom.
A fat pink baby wrapped in a quilt
I sewed in an effort to stem the tides of
my impatience through an endless, sticky
summer.

And a sunny, grassy yard
lined with berries and bird feeders.

These days I dream less of love, that
fickle thing.

More the clatter of passersby in
Venetian canals. The ache and throb of my legs
as I round the top of a postcard mountain.
Crisp reds and yellows and greens of a
farmer’s market in the equally crisp
morning air.

Still that sunny, grassy yard, though.
Lined with berries and bird feeders.

And seeing and hearing and tasting things
that make my heart feel as if it will burst.
Things that make my fingers reach for a pen.

And maybe love. Maybe still. A different kind.

Steady. Patient. Arrived. An envelope.

Or a symphony. Not the rush of youth’s tides.
A building of things, a minutely increasing
everything that becomes a masterpiece.

And the isn’t-this-world-beautiful kind of
love. Awe. At the masterpieces that are
already here.

And the final, beautiful discovery that
giving is more satisfying than receiving.

Giving, giving, giving every piece of me.
Sending life out into the world in
notebooks and hearty laughs and weeping
willows. And eventually this very soil.

Eventually another, different dream will
come true.

Eventually the right one. The right love.

 

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