I wake to a bright morning
surfacing from unfathomable dreaming.
My mother long-dead was driving the car
Very determined and refusing my directions.
Here is the sign I said,
Clear here, this is the way.
I am too anxious she said, and drove on straight.
I knew we would be late
The plane to Glasgow would fly without us.
While my sister sat in the back
and said nothing. Nothing.
Weird anxieties and discrepancies
Fold and refold. Why Glasgow?
I recall acres of concrete while
a few feet away from unseeing eyes
wintry sunlight strikes the window,
catches a few stalks of left-over marigolds
in the plant boxes that stretch along the deck.
I blink. A bluebird is standing in the end box.
Scratching, hopping, he covers the length.
Assessing each box. Considering possibility.
Usually he flies when I move, today I am still.
Each feather gleams its own particular colour.
After he decides to fly the sparrows come,
searching the leftovers. It’s another day.
I don’t know if birds begin their day with dreams.
I don’t know if they know their beauty.
Let dreams belong in sleep. Begin the day.