Rune of a Dream

The Rune of a Dream
The Traveler Coming Home

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Excerpt from a book begun today:

Have you ever had one of those mornings where dreams kept right on coming? You open your eyes and there they are, alive. I had one of those mornings today.

A woman named Oran stood by my bed, all in black. Lace skirts shimmering. Midnight gloves with her fingers bursting through. A rainbow feather dangling, tied into her wind strewn hair.

We stepped into the night, the dreamer and the dreamed.

Oh many wonders of dreams and wandering!

We walked out through the dew as the jet sky was offering herself up for the sun’s silver coins. We glided into the powerful part of the day when everything is between this or that. I invited her into the cabin. Inside the light was already alive above my desk of many hues. A song stream of paint flowed off the linoleum desktop. There, onto the floor, flooded a story of a rainbow and a god’s promise fulfilled. Oran looked at me, still dreaming. “In the colors is the telling of the universe.” she whispered along the nape of my neck.

She swayed into the room; her skirt was many waves rustling. I followed. I implored her as an unrequited lover: “Please stay. Take any seat you’d like. Please stay. It’s been so long.” She looked up to me with her voice of a thousand soft winds, her breath sweet grasses, blowing and swirling in my hair. Her feet ruffled all the loose paper and project strewn on the floor. The shelves of poetry rattled in a shiver quake of recognition. The books came to life, remembering the One who wrote every word ever written.

“I’ll be here now.” she said. She flew her right hand into the air, scrawling a sign for the deaf and longing, for the pilgrims of earth, for the dreamless and the worried, a gift for the found and the ones searching. Her index finger was outstretched. Her and and fingers followed loosely like a wing.

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