William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

A Dreamer Dreamed

Child that I am, I see the wonders of this world as one great, living, moving consciousness; and, from snail to star, I see each discernible part as an expression of that consciousness. I do not see them as higher or lower forms, or judge them according to a scale of narrow, preconceived worth. Neither do I see myself as being conscious in an otherwise unconscious world, or a world where some things are conscious and others are not. Everything is animated, everything is charged, everything is related, everything is subtle, unique, indispensable, and temporary, even as it endures. Or, such is the dream, and these are its words.

 
A Dreamer Dreamed

When I was an old man
inside a dream,
I blessed my olive trees
with tender mortal care.

Deep within my grove,
I could hear the sea below,
the endless sky above,
shepherds singing
on the verdant slope,
women washing clothes,
maids naked in the stream,
plows praying to the soil,
the honey-making bees,
children being born,
wagon wheels made of wood,
the market’s pleasant hum.

These things my olives
heard as well.

I witnessed their patience,
understood their longing,
caressed their supple limbs
laden with fruit,
my neck and arms perspiring,
the bare skin of my body
glistening and brown
like good strong leather,
scented and mad,
lined with many roads.

All summer long,
I did not go home
until the stars were out.

Behind me,
the trees whispered
and sighed.

I ate but little then,
in solitude a cup of wine,
some bread and cheese,
fragrant all and bittersweet.

When morning came,
I was wrapped in the arms
of an ancient dream,
a dreamer dreamed
inside a dream.

I hurried out to find
my olives dreaming me,
full, ripe, about to fall.

Songs and Letters, April 15, 2006

Categories: Songs and Letters

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