I had this most beautiful dream, the other night,
Of pasts, and fears and futures, and shapings
In the form of houses.

I love house dreams, abandoned or full, decrepit
Or rich with left-history of past lives occupants,
They absorb me, totally, in my now-thoughts-life, and,
In my dreams.

I used to have hollow-house dreams, where nothing
Of bio-life was left, but, echoes of life throbbed
Within the empty walls. They wailed with empathy,
Belabored me so much, I couldn’t not search the
Memories of the environment of past occupancy,
And, suffered, accordingly.

I made it all up, of course, through what I’d read
Combined with my knowledge, and imagination.
I’ve read all of Laura Ingalls Wilder's books,
Thrilled to her placement in Time’s evolvement,
And rejoiced in the clear voice of her past.
What better than that? So many books
Of voices dear, how can we choose the best of all?
I think it is the ones that promote the most thought,
Energized into actions. Or, not. I am just one tiny voice
Of problematical something, focused, at times,
Into confusion. Yeah. Gotta love that excuse! Don't you?
Well, not so much, anymore...

Christ, okay, back to the dream. I lived in a house, once,
On seven acres, this house I came back to was it, but more.
It had become perilous, from what I was hearing from its
Present group of youths. They were so sweet and caring
For me, wouldn’t leave until they expounded what to be
Watchful for, in a generic way. It made me uneasy, and scared,
And when they finally petered out with their presences,
I decided to explore, and found more, much more,
Than I was looking for, scalding, yet, coolly delivered.

I came to bedrooms of scruffiness, was trying to figure where
My family of four would sleep, and was amazed at my
Furthertude of continued choices, at every turn I made.
I remember looking out an upper window, saw the old storage area
We’d rescued riches-tossed-out from before, and some
New housing, encroaching on my past. Yet, where I was
Wasn’t there, anymore.

I decided to go to the scariest place in the house,
Not my personal attic, but a conglomeration of the scariest
I’ve seen or imagined or dreamed. And, damn,
I’ve dreamed some beautiful bad ones!

So, I’m heading for an attic of suffrage, and kept coming
Upon such beautiful rooms of living, I couldn’t believe it,
Every egress brought ingress of betterment, to my delight.
One room was so huge, it held all these patches and looms
Of cloth, where homemade quilts were made, with
The previous owner of this house its dame, I was just
A visitor of grace. So observantly laid were the
Accoutrements of human love displayed, to my healing
Eye-of-mind, I felt soothed of my self-suffering.

I came to a door, which led outside, it was just past
The middle of an encirclement of my own making.
I looked back at the length of my thinkings, dreams
And wanderings through life.

I went back in and continued my journey, luxuriating
In rooms of such renowned beauty, I could have wept,
If I could. The marvels I saw in materialism shadowed
The spiritual with their lines and forms, it was wondrous…

I don’t know where I ever thought of this, or even saw it,
Perhaps, but, in an alcove where dining ruled, inside
The small boxy table, to the left, when you lifted its lid,
Were live herbs, in small compartments, for spicing your meal
To your own taste…

After that, and before, I knew I was waking, tried to stay in this
Building of my ‘dream-making’, it was so much better than the halls
Of ghosts I had walked in my past. I hope, one day I will realize
'This Most Beautiful Dream'.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 1/2/05