|April 24, 2011|
Dreams make sense only during, after they are fragments like the mirror before it is broken...there are images there but compartmented in odd, oblique angles.
Like broken bones.
The cat brought a bird into the house yesterday. An offering. A Thanks. An idea that would no longer fly away, even if startled. My daughter took the bird from the cat and wanted desperately to mend it and help it to fly again. But things so traumatized never fly in the fashion of before. The bird died and my daughter buried it. Now the ideas will remain with us and will no longer fly away.
Or all the buried birds are waiting in a cage deep under the ground, only to fly free when the right well is dug.