It is my dream that I can not remember,
as it is so unbelievably old.
Perhaps it was late November,
and not much of it my mind now holds.
Yes there are images,
that flash back when I give it a thought,
but I haven’t had that dream for ages,
so when sympathetic recall it sought,
With a furrowed brow I tried to find those visions,
that left me cold,
and what I have now is far from precision.
A house and bulbs,
my grandmother wrinkled,
a van and people,
and my bag.
Oh! And there were eggs.
Spotless smooth and shiny eggs.
Two for me and the rest for them.
An argument made its way into it,
and a friend was lost,
for just when we were ready to leave,
she with a chiding was stopped.
A marriage and flowers on the wall,
noodles in my purse,
funny things lying around,
holding me in its thrall.
I believe my thoughts ran amock,
and the subconscious had gone askew,
for there was so much to grasp,
and so little to make any sense,
that I never did forget it entirely,
because I can not dream that dream again.


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