When I dream
I feel as though I should dream of Paris,
of the way streets meander,
of the way parquet flooring looks,
of the way the light dance across the glasses raised as I sing
I finally sing,
triumphant that I have embraced a full throated life.

I think I should dream of a piano in the corner of a room,
the light from a courtyard playing across the soft fur of a cat
nestled in a sunbeam
of an overstuffed chair
and a table piled high with books
and nearly enough space for a cup of tea.

I would like a dream of a small place
called chateau la mienne,
with a messy garden rife with flowers,
and probably hedgehogs.

I think I would like to dream of sense,
though french books have upside down titles
and I feel so awkward reading spines from the right.
I’ve romanticized my memories
for certain.
But they play out true
in my dreams.