I dreamed books,
the pulp and paper kind,
floated overhead like circling
birds. They
opened and words
tumbled out, came down
like dandelion seeds.
I grabbed what words
I could and put them
in a pail. At home
I dumped them
onto a table,
arranged them
into lists and phrases,
sentences, paragraphs . . . .
I cooked and ate, washed up,
spoke prayers into empty
silence, got in bead, read a book,
and fell asleep knowing I'd never
have the book-dream again.
Hans Ostrom 2024
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