The Dreamer

(Poem by Wendy Howe )
see also the french version

Longing draws me away
from Winter's terrace. She calls me inside
where the walls desperately crave
new paint or papering. I think
they would prefer the papering.

Memory is rolled up
in an attic corner waiting
to be spread out. My fingers
yearn to flatten the past,
and cover this bare space

with small leaves and pale roses,
with a girl emerging
from their bower. Her face
is the dreamer's face, a blonde
figment imposing

thoughts of being an actress,
a lover in Dumas' garden. She read
all of his books. She stood evenings
like a white statue on the grass
hoping to portray the beautiful
sorrow of Camille. Her youth spun
romantic whims into the will
of Fate; and somewhere

beyond this empty house,
I am still
that school girl tangled
in the long, flower stems of Spring.

Free DHTML scripts provided by
Dynamic Drive