My dreams have returned.

I used to wonder where they had come from,

Marching me down from my grandma’s shelves,

The tall mahogany ones that lined her dining room.

My dreams would carry me like a crumb

That ants had stolen from a picnic

Away from the top,

Where the good books were,

Down and around like a spiral staircase,

To the ground floor where the children’s books lay.

But I would ride on the backs of my dreams,

Like Santa in his sleigh,

Only I whipped my reindeer,

And then I would laugh as they flew wildly

To throw me off of the sled,

For I knew someday

My dreams would leave me

Up at the top of the bookcase,

And I would be able to see from up there,

And maybe understand.

One day I woke and wondered 

Where my dreams had gone.

It seemed I hadn’t had a dream 

In such a long time,

Like a deep well without a bucket

To let down in and draw up water,

Something amiss, too much this,

And not enough that,

But my dreams are back.

They’ve grown into beautiful young men

And women, who dance divinely 

Round the ballroom floor.

A chaperone just asked one of them

If he had any lofty aspirations,

And the reply came from the normally shy guy,

That he hoped to be a saint someday.

My dreams... like a deep thought,

My bucket, I’ve dropped it!

But, it’s no matter, my dreams, like the ants,

Have formed a ladder, and I’m going down

After it, all the way now.

-jenn