I DREAM THE IMPOSSIBLE

© 2010, Wanda L. Harrell

I dream the impossible

when I open the door to see you standing there,

or feel your fingers running through my hair.

When I emerge from my dreams,

I know I'll never hear your voice call out my name,

and have only a photograph of you in a gold frame.

I dream the impossible

when we walk on the beach, hand in hand,

leaving our footprints in the cool wet sand,

When I emerge from my dreams,

I know we'll never share a late supper by candlelight,

or together drift off to sleep, holding each other tight.

I dream the impossible

when I stand with you on a mountain peak high,

drinking in the soft blue wine of a summer sky.

When I emerge from my dreams,

I know I cannot share all I am, body, heart and soul,

or feel your arms lovingly holding me, not letting go.

I dream the impossible

when you kiss me at midnight and each day’s sunrise,

and embrace the sounds of your loving moans and sighs.

When I emerge from my dreams,

I know I have only these four walls that keep me company,

a pillow upon which I lay my head and a quilt to warm me.

I dream the impossible

when, upon my hand, you place a gleaming band of gold,

vowing to love each other, and to always and forever hold.

When I emerge from my dreams,

I know we will never walk down a rose-strewn wedding aisle,

and my impossible dreams only afford me momentary denial.