Prose I wrote some years ago.  Poetry is a form of catharsis for me.  I openly admit my shortcomings as a writer, but I love it all the same.  I wrote this one, looking for a way to describe the wonderful experience of serendipity as it regards to hope and aspirations.I hope you enjoy it!

Dreams are born in those moments
When the mind seems to open itself
And with the heart as its center
The imprint of the vision blooms
With the pedals of thought exposing
The anther of our hearts
revealing sweet pollen of hope and vision
Delicate filaments that extend themselves,
To the chance exposure of the
Imprinting instance

Where we see our calling
Where we fall in love
Where we see the self complete

Dreams are carried through
And nurtured within the safekeeping
Of gardens carved on terraces
Inside the chasm of the soul
In places we guard zealously
With the elastic strength of
Labyrinthic walls and delicately
Crafted masks, constructed
To deflect the passing glimpses
Of occasional lovers and
Misplaced passions

Dreams are fulfilled
In pieces, much of the time
Revealing themselves
As fractions, making the whole
Sometimes unnoticeable
A mysterious construction
That harvests the ripened blooms
Within our inner crevices
Deliberately, almost secretly

Dreams are sometimes destroyed
By wind whipping through the cavernous
Coils of thought and emotion
Cold wind of disappointment
Arctic storms carrying the whispers
Of lies, deceit, and carelessly spoken words
Understood by our inner gardens as deep truths
Understood as richening soil for dream roses and rhododendrons
That soon after wither and die

Sometimes the pedals fall, ashes
To give sustenance to a hybrid dream
Wiser, stronger and with thorns

Sometimes remains of frigid breezes
Carry them off to unspoken places
Places where denial sinks a landscape
Into dark valleys
And no seed or remnant escapes

Dreams are not captive to the ruminations
Of one’s own personal geography
Daily depending on strong soil of good life
To survive the days

Instead, dreams arise in the strangest
Of places, giving birth in numbers to those
Who are strong enough to open themselves
To the promise, the beauty of the moment,
The imprinting instance of chance and melody

The meekest, the poorest
Can carry the deepest gardens
Allowing delicate openings
The poverty of an anther’s exposure