I dreamed she wore a dress of matted maple leaves, preferred slow jazz...

I dreamed she wore a dress of matted maple leaves, preferred slow jazz

in yellows, reds and oranges 
they are strewn across the asphalt 
taking turns, running under 
the morning commuter tires' 
they stir in whir pattern differences 
my ears are tuned 
to their wet rhythms 
and crow caw heavy morning melodies

outside it is rainy October 
awash in grey daylight 
spill billowing cold air 
through my open window 
I must confess though 
I do not want to get out of bed...
no, I'd much rather dream, 
draped in pieces of you...
little vignettes that bring me to smile 
closing my eyes toward 
where my soul's foundry 
finds its daily dance 
of bread, bones and flesh 
to wrap and dry my arms around...

and with newspaper ink 
smearing this most current 
stain of words and cadence
the poem goes, grows inside 
each successive thought 
and it doesn't necessarily 
have an end game 
but it does know you by name 
and says you danced as well 
as any partner might have...

EJR ©