Categories
Poetry

On Memories and Dreams

John 1:3

If through You
All things were made
And all things are possible

I know why
Lilacs smell like rainbows
And antiseptic

Winter wind
Stings like steel
Needles in my vein

I remember one summer
Sweet as lemonade
Sharp as a scalpel blade.

In my dream 
I taste warm cinnamon

I kneel beneath
Watercolor skies

Fold my hands
Round this tiny wren

Its injured wing
Quivers 

Like its
Trembling heart

I unfold my hands
But I will not wake 

Until my dreams 
Become memories

And I keep my memories
To do with as I please.

By markthegrey

I am a biologist, author, poet, professor, and parent. I nest in Aurora, IL with my spouse and about two to four kids.

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