In my dream I walk beneath candletrees
tall and splayed and covered with
yellow inflorescence, luminescence
flickering to the sky.
Their seed is hard and black,
difficult to sprout without scarification,
soaking in an acid bath
that mimics the labor pains of
their particular difficult nature.
I pick a pod up, roll it between my fingers,
feel the small flat bodies, so reluctant to live
outside their kind.
The candletrees change in the dark
as everything changes in the dark
to hulks of houses, listing
ruins of a harder wood now decayed
softer than an herb's bough,
greyed rosemary ghostification
of the neighborhood
once slummed, then gentrified, now gone
into memory’s shacks, weeds where
once crouched the little iron houseboys
with their painted black skin and
flaking red coats holding
a forever empty ring
to tie a ghost horse
that long ago trotted away.
So passes the night,
the years, the loves,
the life, from luminous yellow
to hard stubborn black
to a distant grey galloping.
I show you flowers in my dream;
I don’t know why you scream
and break glasses for
a bone horse that sails
the vacant air.
Sheila Moore is hosting Poetics this week, and her prompt is on the subject of changes, as one has experienced them in life. This is from a dream I had earlier in the week, and seems to fit the bill, at least better than the politics rant I had up earlier. Come join us. Link is live till midnight Sunday.