“The creation of something new is not accomplished by the intellect but by the play instinct acting from inner necessity. The creative mind plays with the objects it loves.” 

– Carl Jung

I

Hanging on the clothesline outside-
is a dream

dripping
of
longings.
It has absorbed my yearnings like the dry dust-laden trees of this city; the way they take in the first monsoon shower… it’s called sondhi here in Punjab: the fragrance that arises when the first rain drops fall on parched,waiting land. Sondhi… the fragrance of my dreams.

The sun is quickly evaporating the remains of my dream ensuring that nothing is left of the night before.. and I…I close my eyes for the last time before the sun takes over…to remember the dream before it is lost to the day..
Some mornings I cannot be certain if it was a dream…
… or was it a vision

or a moment of reality…
II

The way I wait for darkness is like most wait for the daylight. I build up my rapture like a crescendo rising.

I relish the dusk because it promises me the purity of the night ahead.

Have we seen the moon watch the night intently? It is a constancy in waiting that makes the Moon the only lover Night will ever have…will ever want…

…I walk to the lake and rest against the tree. It’s grown thicker since I last came here. The moon shines within the folds of sensually rising and falling water. I look at it but for a moment and close my eyes to meet you. Some nights I stay like this for hours and yet the hours evaporate into minutes or seconds or whatever the world knows as Time..
…and I open my eyes to your head lying in my lap
… I have not seen your face in years
…or days
…or hours
…or minutes

I am not a teller of Time… I only know how to endure it
in all its  impossibilities. In all its futility.

My dream is my sanctuary and my nights a refuge. You seek refuge too. I am not inquisitive about the reason for fear you will shatter my dream sequence. And it depends on your presence too.

It’s very quiet tonight…I can hear the breeze rustling through the trees. It stills to listen and then stretches to  flirt with the leaves. In its finality it enters me …
…and I gasp…

III

Communion is not essential but it is ordained.

How else could I ever explain your presence in my world.
IV
I close my eyes to the one Truth: Love is broken…even in dreams.

 

…

Dee is from Lahore, Pakistan. Loves dark nights and old trees.