Whisper it...

I dream of a house. Windows open to the scent of alder and cedar trees. The wind swishing through them, dancing against a thousand stars.

I dream of a house. There is color. Burnt orange. Deep chocolate brown. Ocher. The lush cream of vanilla. The clashing vibrancy of turquoise.

He says to me, “You dream in color.” Not a question. But a statement.

There is a long curved wall rising up towards the cedar planked ceiling. Light pours into the rooms as fascinating as the way vodka enters a martini glass. Slick. Smooth.

Detail. Exacting. He says to me, “Is it a premonition?” Yes, this IS a question. Is it? I wonder that myself.

I have to be careful of dreams. They tell me lies. The heart is too strong a voice.

The driveway went down a little hill. A large field lay in fallow before the house. The cedar trees were so green in comparison to the muted sky and lawn. I was remembering Frank Lloyd Wright. Influenced by organics and the way the trees frame a life.

He says, “Was there red?”

It is one of those dreams that keep you awake after the fog fades. Pondering.




G.