Search This Blog

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

In Visible Spectrum

It starts with a dream. Seven trees, their leaves sweet with the end of summer; bees tracing stems and beetles on bark skittering upwards. In the center of a circle of trees, nestled in tall grasses, Monet pulls a quilt over her body--late-afternoon heat is on its way out with the sun's plain descent. Her quilt is fleshy summer leaves aside rubied autumnal counterparts. She closes her eyes and the leaves above have turned, are falling. What she needs is here.

Monet wakes from her dream of leaves and finds I have been dreaming of her: her hair stained with thoughts of lilypads at dark and the water surrounding them. Her eyes are lit violets. Her skin drenched with light. I wake from my dream and find her beside me.

The first quilt materializes, borne of Monet's dreams of leaves and my dreams of Monet. In soft evening, sleep reverie smudges the lines around us; shifts the membrane between realities. Good night, Monet. I am so glad you are here.