by dim light
cast from
the stove top range
I wrestle with the brushes
from an eight year old’s
paint set
moving colored water
across paper
in 4am dark
quiet
I don’t want to wake anyone
just feel
the weight
of all things
pumpkin
still fresh
from the dream
armloads of thick-skinned
squashes
root vegetables
ten pound pumpkins
all set and sorted
to be plated in gold
a bracelet offered
that fit
half my forearm
rainbow moonstone
milky irridescence
squared
in rosy
copper banding
interpreters of dreams
suggest
the essence
holds the meaning
friends bestowing substantial treasures
I’m the first one
in my house
this morning
awake
layering oranges and greens
in the corner of the kitchen
no reason
Yesterday’s poem was a quick attempt to capture two things: a fleeting dream, rich with color and feeling, and the fact that I was racing time just to write about it.
(This morning, my challenge with time may be no different. I hear Jeb rustling in his room, now as I type. The current time is one minute to 5:00am. How early must a woman wake to write in peace?!)
Since the Archives serves as a record of daily chronicles and I love to discover threads of the profound in the mundane, I will report the following details.
Tuesday evening I had a vivid dream in which the Bohemian and I, along with some close friends, were living in a natural, outdoor dwelling near the sea. He and I were finding patches of land where the lawn was dry and we were seeding those spots for soft, green grass.
Inspired to write a poem about it and share it here, I found myself up against the clock in the process. This further lent material to the poem, as I pondered time and space and that fascinating land of dreams which seems to both bridge, transcend (and pleasantly suspend) linear time.
The poem was nothing spectacular (hence I won’t bother reposting it here, though you can review it on yesterday’s post if you’re curious) but I got it finished in time to take Jeb to his bus stop.
I mentioned the dream to the Bohemian while we made breakfast. Spent, probably, three sentences on the topic, then he went to work with our friends and I left for my work day.
At day’s end, the Bohemian arrives home with his traditional whistle as he opens the front door. I whistle back. He climbs the stairs and comes into view, his t-shirt and corduroys dusty and damp with sweat, his face smiling.
“Hi Jess. How are you?”
“I’m well,” I say, happily assessing his figure and searching his face for clues. “How are you doing?”
I’m always curious what the Bohemian’s work day has entailed, as he works on our friends’ farm near the ocean where tasks vary by the day. Sometimes planting, sometimes clearing brush. They may build a greenhouse or cut back trees. No one day is the same.
“I’m good! Guess what I did today?” he asks with a grin.
“What?”
“I planted grass.” He’s smiling bigger.
And just for the record, the friends we were with in my dream, are the very friends he works with. The ones with which he spent the day planting grass.
There is only one way to eat these mangos: standing over the kitchen sink with the spigot ready. You need a full facial rinse-off and hose down to the elbows after diving into this sticky sweet treat. The tree in our yard has them falling off in our hands, and when this harvest is over (coming soon) we know that summer will be officially over.
Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved
I keep hearing Johnny Mathis singing a Christmas song in my head as I stand in summer grass beneath a coconut palm. It’s the
chestnuts roasting on an open fire Jack Frost nipping at your nose
There’s no nipping here, just some perspiration in this tropical heat, along with the Bohemian and his diligent collection of Malabar Chestnuts. I keep thinking this prolific tree is fairly useless with its bounty of nuts, but he insists they’re tasty and our gardening expert and friend, Mary, says they are, indeed, quite palatable when toasted. A quick Wikipedia search teaches me this tree is often referred to as the “Money Tree.” Hmmm…maybe the Bohemian is on to something. If he’s a squirrel, we’ve got our winter stash.
Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved
The green onion chives got a haircut yesterday and now all culinary dishes will be garnished in it. I guess if our whole household is breathing onions, none of us will notice much. As for the rest of the world, well, I’ll apologize in advance. We’ve got to get through this harvest. Can’t really go in small doses, green onions just don’t freeze well.
Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved
And while we’re on the thread of inspiration, can I just include a picture of what I’ve come to selfishly term, “my door”? The “my” only inserted as some feeble attempt to connect myself with one of the most beautiful pieces of art (that is, in fact, functional) that I have ever seen. I have held a love for doorways (and keys) for quite sometime. This door from Bali was recently assembled by the Bohemian and a friend. My camera could not capture the entire 19 foot wall of ornate woodwork that stands of either side of this entryway. The craftsmanship has me awestruck.
I joke that if this could be my front door, my home could be a simple mat on the ground, and I’d be happy just to spend my days gazing upon the carvings of my entrance.
This door is so inviting! It just begs of wonderment. What’s on the other side?
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