The mind wants to be stone.
In and out, smooth perfect circle
of answers and beauty, touched up.
God has risen from the dead, and he is you, only better.
Snow is still the cause of an effect that is home.
What would snow be like in Los Angeles?
Three foot flakes falling inside malls.
To sleep again, ask the dream a question.
He doesn't want anything from you,
except for you to want him

and this is hardest to give.
A little girl, lost in a furniture store.
You remember the salesgirl's face,
long brown hair, green skirt.
You want help, she gives you a gift.
Fifteen years later, you discover it didn't happen.
A marker of your mind, mistaken.
Today, yesterday's memories are legends,
though worn like a badge of you.

A flake, a small one,
floats through a dream and lands outside.
A real flurry in the blue California sky
is resurrected in your sleep.
In the morning, it flattens you to the place he was last night.
Press your warm fingers to wet,
cold cheeks and wonder if two people
can have the same mistaken dream
and wonder if you should care.