JOURNAL ARCHIVES BIOGRAPHY LINKS PHOTOGRAPHY POETRY
|
|
•In my dreams, I have a deep melodious voice that rises in song from the depths of joy and despair. I pass through the days of my life like a wind through the trees, in a state of grace, without an audience, seeking always the spaces in between, caressing the boundaries of endless passage. In my dreams I am. •They asked the class to tell what place they would most like to visit. She told them the place she liked best was her dreams. •I dreamt he was alive. He sat at a table, a tall cup of cappuccino on a saucer in front of him. It was nearly empty. A lazy smoke curled up from the cigarette held absently as he watched the pedestrian traffic. He did not see me at first, as if he did not expect me to be there. I walked up to the table slowly, watching him watch, and stood there waiting. Sensing a presence, he looked up at me. Then he smiled. That was all. He smiled. •The letter came in a thin white envelope, addressed to me at the University. They wondered, it said, if I would be so kind as to send a copy of my writing to be held at the Library of Congress. It lies there still, written in the days before gravity. It was a dream. •There were eight short steps of the stairs to the single room above. The room with the bed and three windows. The bed stood under the largest window, facing east to catch the morning sun. He knew I would be there. I knew he had been there. The petals of red roses covered the place where I had lain. I have them still. |
RECIPES :: Cast
|
Page by Page: A Woman's Journal
|
