It must have been the rain,
Whose liquid melody,
Echoing so softly,
Birthed dreams behind closed eyes…


But really…what are dreams?
Are they scattered fragments
Of living or portents?
Can they be dangerous?

I am filled with questions
On this rainy morning,
Alone and pondering
Meanings in soft-toned dreams.

If they do hold secrets,
Are life’s Rosetta stone,
Do they wait for the lone
Dreamer? Then…I am [she].

It must have been the rain…
Outside, to open eyes,
Is the raw stuff of dreams…
Yes, it is dangerous
But grand without question.
The intertwine of life and dreams
Do in fact hold secrets…
A lone dreamer awakens…
I am [she].

E.W. Richardson