Reading a Dream
by Roger Jones

    Sometimes I go back to an old house
    and step into a room I've known;
    there's a stillness that tends to all,
    and the door opens as if nothing's changed.

    But then I see that little ray of light
    in one corner, or sense something new --
    the color of paint, a potted plant
    on the sill where we'd never placed one --

    and I know: someone or many someones
    have come and gone, and this room is time,
    and it's never the same, and perhaps
    I'm even dead, or so old I can't realize

    how much has passed since I called
    this room mine, when all the time
    it wasn't. Part of me always resides
    in these poised moments, places,

    believing the lie time stands still,
    as in a dream, that in each moment
    I see poised, there's a date, a discovery,
    something to leap out and save me.

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