The inquisitive little girl listened as her mother spoke to her. She loved her mother’s stories each night before she closed her eyes and fell asleep. They helped her settle into the warm folds of her blanket. As her eyes closed her mother spoke. “Sleeping wind lays its breath on the earth. Quietly she turns, moving nothing but herself. No one notices her nascent presence. Her dreams though make wild and blustery sounds. Pushing through window screens and laying those very same dreams on you my dearest.” (The willowy breath sounds from her mother’s lips blow sweetly near her face.) “The dim starlight has reasons even though dull. Making shade all the softer and colors not so bold. They waken the night so the dew can be seen. These sleeping reflections are lights for your dream. They swing into movement. They land as a glaze. The dim starlight becomes active for reasons they gave. To awaken what will. Your dimness unblind. Sweet dreams come to surface. Very similar to rhymes.” (Mama, tell me more.) “The night flowers catch the shadows and off into the night they lay down sleeping. Asleep there not because of dreams, but because they are together. In the darkened night the shadow’s colors know another. Nightened flowers enlightened by shadows that speak.” (Are the flowers singing?) “Yes, my dear. The music is mind altering, a piece of paper unravels, all the colors inside turning the other way. Addressing the sounds. Becoming muffled, one into another. Another into one. The distance between edges obscure. Powdered pastels form waves. Rising airs reaching heaven from the music.” (Mama, tell me what you dreamt.) ”It was this diagonal dream on a bike. On the ground sleeping soundly. Nothing like being held in a will of its own making. The bike wheels rolling into a Hempstead field gathering up little bits of earthen wear around their tread. I was meant to pick at this dirt and pack it into a pod as I dreamt of overgrown plants that would emerge. Spreading out their tendrils grasping the tree branches for leaves to hold onto. Roots growing deeply into the earth awaiting the watery raindrops’ arrival to quench their thirst. A dreamer’s paradise to watch as I biked through this web of nature. An enlargement of what; I wondered...as always my dreams reveal. Or perhaps the gusty wayward air is a channel to turn on. A tv to look into. A walking girl on her way to see why she is an anemometer. Put into the picture to measure exactly how much wind is needed to open more petals. I want more petals to open up. To bloom. To fill the air with perfume. I want the gusty wayward air to do that so everyone can wear a flower. High styled or plain. Peace babies spreading love. Always in my mind this golden yellow party of flowers blowing in a field close to the ocean. A vest for the earth and I. Dance little ones into my heart. (Mama, were you really there in your dream, can I go, too?) ” Yes, my darling little girl, one day you will see the ocean’s waves form eyes of blue. Caresses fashioned by the skies above. Light voiced into shades unbeknownst to man. He touches though their worth and knows the blue bounty of this vision. The waves, the skies forever his hope. His shoe fell off and he left it there as a footprint. Of all the places he traveled and all the dust he moved. All the trampled people he saw. Every sock he wore from drawers that gentle hands had placed within to keep him warm. His footprint a container of time his shoe kept safe. It remains for you.” Copyright S. Kamber