The phone rings and rings and no one answers because those that are supposed to answer have left to play in the grass that has grown like a young girls hair. Laughing and chasing each other, they roll down hills, the grass making their arms itch with stories left behind by yesterday’s swooning lovers. This is what goes on in my head, this and the dream of a table — So many tables with their stories of good food and so many conversations — of love making and dream making and tear making and poems. I dream — a dream, where children and gods and dogs chase each other around the house leaving laughing like blossoms, everywhere. Where glasses of wine are knocked over because of passionate arguments over art, poetry, memory, love, life! — Oh the exuberant explanations of stars and reasons for doing the things we do —or in acting the ways we do — All in an attempt to simply understand one another; from the depths of what and who we are — and aren’t. — of who we want and dream to be — So I dream — of porches in summer and laughing so hard it makes me both of us cry — and there on the porch where a flame of fireflies spells out your name in an ancient script of light; there where two tired dogs — one yawning and the other running in her dream — chases after the littlest locomotive that runs across a summer sky —the sparks from the burning coal turning into birds that drop letters to the lonely letting them know.