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Nohng to d with the poem tday. Just  phot I capturered thether day and liked!

Nohng to do with the poem today. Just a photo I captured the other day and liked!


“Poor dear,” she said, and I felt the cup of her hand

caress my cheek. I was certain I was asleep.

Yet the memory of the moment, the sound of her voice

above me are recreated exactly, each time the moment

is recalled.


The old sofa’s corduroy upholstery, a deep olive green, was worn to

velvet softness against my body,stiff and sore. Pressed into the well-

used cushions, my legs stretched out far enough to rub my toes against

these threadbare, overstuffed armrest.


The voice belonged to my landlady, owner of the apartment

built above the garage of the handsome Greek revival

mansion she and her husband restored. I knew nothing of

rentals, or owners, leases or contracts. I was young

and newlywed. This place was ours for now.


I was newly pregnant as well, but in the proper order;

sleepiness stole away each inactive waking moment.

This symptom above all others ruled my days. I must not

sit down, nor rest my swelling ankles, a mistake that often

stole my daylght.


The apartment cast a net of charm on all who came in.

It was alive with love and spirit-blessed all those who lived

there. Whatever they brought with them, fit by design, adding

sheen to shabby, and class to bargain basement finds, perfect

mismatched matches.


I did not know to whom she spoke, but I felt another

presence there. Foolish, deeply-held desires bubbled up from the river

bottom of life-long dreams. Such an embarrassment of childish wishes

would not be submerged in twilight shallows.


He was a kind and gentle man, father-like, funny, and dear.

My fully wakened spirit rose to meet him, this treasure

of my heart. Self woven dreams take no account of the

impossible. Beckoning me to where he stood, my arms

embraced his shoulders, as he did mine.


For as long as need held me there, my left cheek rested

upon the lapel of his shiny, shark-skin suit. Old style,

but oddly new, the scent of the fabric mixed with his

cologne still lingers in the air, the coolness of the

cloth remains upon my cheek.


It was dark when I awoke, yet the air was light.

No note nor trace of visitors marked the room. Except

for the dwindling embers in the fireplace, no sign

that time had passed was evident. As I rose to stand,

I smiled, touched the coolness on my cheek;

sensed a sweetness in the air.


There is magic, and dreams are realized.

There is no one to tell me what is real, or unealized.

To feel is to know, and knowing is understanding.

I have the gift of understanding bestowed upon me.

It came to me long ago, in a perfectly sized, divinely

designed apartment. I did not leave it behind.

In my dreams I live there still.


This is a true story. Intimate details are not included. For you, my Gentle Readers, this is enough. . .