As you were crossing Lexington you thought about last night's dream - it wasn't a good one. You also considered red and yellow, the colors, how they work together, yet if you were designing the perfect outfit as you rose from your bed like the undead from a coffin, yet if you were to imagine a blouse awaiting on hanger at Macy's or the Good Will as you flip flopped on sidewalks tacky with phlegm and ambition, never - not once - would you imagine a blouse red and yellow. Not once, yet it could work. You've seen silk sheaths blending statement colors with more sophistication than the Chinese flag. Your dream had something to do with a volunteer gig and poetry. A distasteful gig you abandoned and as you did, you dropped a prop related to the gig, something big as fire extinguisher. But then you conscience-stricken love bundle, you turned back. The dropped prop was damaged but found. The guy organizing the gig shrugged. He knew and cared and didn't. No one wore red and yellow. You returned to the room of poets doing crafts but not good ones. The poets were hopeful. Hope being a fly to swat at. You returned - it's not a nightmare. You were given second chances and you took them. Take a chance, dear one, take a second chance. You can rise like steam or a flame or a shard seeking grace and holy love.
[Sarah Sarai, June 12, 2013] [written because you remembered colors] [written because the dream could be worse] [written because you need someone to talk to]
[Sorry I missed yesterday.]
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