Last night I composed a new poem in my sleep.
An idea came to me, and the words just flowed.
I read it over several times, editing here and there,
until at last I was quite pleased with the result.
When I awoke this morning, however, the poem
was completely forgotten. Isn’t that how it goes?
Perhaps those who visit with me now and then
will come across that poem in their sleep.
They may read it and later wake up smiling,
but not sure why — life is funny that way.
Really, it doesn’t matter. We’re all making poetry
in our sleep, then forgetting it again and again.
We all imagine we are awake, mostly because
dreaming can often seem so real, so poetic.
Every moment is a new poem we are adding
to the luminous book of our lives.
When we pass over, our friends will read each line
and offer their sincere congratulations for having
made the effort. The praise will be well-earned.
With each new life we start again with a clean
blank page. All former dream poems are forgotten.
They are left behind on a shelf in the big library
while we work out our new materials here:
poems of innocence and experience, of desire
and its satisfaction, of love and loss, of forgetting
and then remembering, and all that comes between.