all was as it was
the people, the places,
with the warts
back in the Twin Cities,
we were, with everything
no mosquitoes, no humidity,
no midnight drug dealers in the
grocery store parking lot.
all the bus drivers
becoming the do as YOU pleasers,
with curbside delivery,
right to your
the rent didn't sky-rise
and there were no "gentrifieds."
and the cold wasn't so cold.
no more 20 below.
for once I could feel my nose.
and my nostrils didn't freeze
as I breathed heaving white clouds
like an accordian.
there were no more big city animosities,
just love in a land of plenty
and the serenity that a state of
11,000 lakes and treatment centers
could well produce.
the young man who once slept huddled
in his sleeping bag
behind the bushes by 35W
didn't freeze anymore.
and the bawling red-haired man who screamed aloud
and ate raw hot dogs from the corner bodega
now owned a weiner stand and sold
dogs by the score. no one froze in the
bitter, harsh cold nor went hungry.
the church food shelf hired us to
be good will ambassadors and we got
five weeks vacation like they do in Europa.
we never turned away anyone.
with every food basket we added
a hug and sincere dollop of hope.
all of our former fr-enemies had
a true change of heart. we were greeted
kindly everywhere; this was much better
than a second start. I knew I was dreaming,
but, oh what a dream it was.
we were all together, the two cats formerly deceased
with our latest cat too...together we shared the
same antique bed Grandpa had lovingly made.
the cherry bed I'd previously let somebody pay
a mere fifty dollars for. the bed that was
sold with its memory for a song or was it
for a plane ticket to migrate west?
had that been for the best?
when outside a gentle, accepting snow
began to fall. the kind of cotton candy snow, coming
down, sprinkling, sparkling like sand.
at times, coming in sideways,
at times whirling, like my dreams, to surround me.
the sort of snow that blankets and puts the world to
bed so that almost nothing makes a sound.
the sort of snow that makes you
feel the peace inside,
even when the weather gains momentum,
becomes a blizzard, and the pelting of snow
is like handfuls of rice being thrown at your windows,
and the howling of the wind is some old man
complaining about his bones aching in the cold.
and you are inside, inside of your dream, warm,
so toasty warm.
and you are finally, with all you love, at home.
Copyright September 6, 2013
All Rights Reserved By Author
Melissa A Howells
Meloo straight from her Tilt-a-World
(Dream> oh what a dream you are
to go travelling to the places
in and of the heart. )
Vote for this poem