two lumps of clay

september 16th

In dreams last night I walk along the ventriculated limbs of my thought possums, those sleeping possibilities.  Endlessly variegated and multi-edged, these tentacles deliver me into courtyards, into street scenes, where I weave amongst seated patrons and take some orders, ignore others. Everything is blossoming, wild differentiation. A man speaks to me and then you cry out from your room next door and I am wrenched from the scene and into this one: darkened room and stillness.
Six a.m.
I gather you into my arms with a bottle of milk and we snuggle back into bed for our new morning cuddle routine (you drink the milk with eyes wide open on my face, while I hold you and stare back dreamily, and we break and giggle for kisses and fierce hugs before returning to soft focus) and we are two lumps of clay again, waiting to be formed.

-mom