Shaping Dreams

 

At the tidal point where ripples run like dominoes

from sea left to sea right, memory offers up decades

of misunderstandings, trying to make things right,

managing to never be right. Reality pounds in my ears

leaving no room for imagination, the crest before anything

happens is the only time our power seems matched.

There’s no turning back, no gentle retreat to look forward to,

just being plucked like a bruised whelk from its shell.

I learn my lesson over and over again, but every wave

is a little different, shifting grains into distinct patterns,

hitting new rhythms, shuffling another set of broken dreams

to fold in on themselves.

First published on: I am not a Silent Poet, 2017