I’ve started composing poems in my dreams,
But they shatter upon waking and are unusable.
My arms are laden with gifts in the other world,
But through the portal they cannot pass,
And my hands are empty when I arrive on this side.
But no matter;
I remember the cascade of words,
Not the words but the cascade,
Trickling from above, beyond,
Into my mind like water seeping into a cave below ground.
Minerals are left on rocks, and form structures