Her: I dreamt of spring last night, it felt so real, I was so eager for it to happen. It was early morning, birds were warming up their singing voices, the sun had started to climb the side of the mountains. Not content to lay in bed, I left the soft breathing, the gentle luxury of sleep.
Him: I woke to empty morning blankets on my side of the bed, stretched, blissful yoga legs shaking slightly. Soft snores not mine, gently waft through the beams of dust floating on the air. I leave with no regard, if he isn’t up maybe the other one is.
Moving with purpose, single minded, padding downstairs sleepy eyed, take the stairs two at a time, I have no cares other then the rumble in my stomach. I awoke from a dream, of green grass, birds singing, sunlight and warm pavement on my feet.
A noise downstairs makes me hesitate to move forward.
Her: In my dream gardening clothes hung with gentle wrinkles, my hair unbrushed. The absence of sparkling crystals hanging on branches meant it hadn’t rained, and I’m caught staring at the sun, it beckoned me outside.
Him: Slinking into the kitchen, wobbly with hunger, rubbing against the doorway, she doesn’t notice me, her face a movie screen echoing a inner daydream. I keep my gaze on her, willing her to turn, “look at me” I silently project.
I watch as she fumbles to open the door, don’t, it’s not time, look at me.
Her: In my dreams carrying seed packets and garden trowel I pass through the door into the back garden. Kneeling I gratefully run my hand through the freshly turned soil, packets of seed carelessly dumped onto the earth a colourful pile of soon to be granted wishes. I dreamt that I buried them like treasure, flowers yet to be discovered. I stood up and walked through the newly grown grass as dewdrops clung to my feet begging for a ride.
It felt so real, I was there in the garden, in the morning sunshine, and then….
The startled quail flock forward rising as one when the click of the door latch surprises them this early. The pheasant clucks disapprovingly as he makes for the safety of the shed’s rooftop.
The shock of bare feet touching the cold floor of the kitchen waking me from a morning slumber of sunny days and warming soil. It was only a winter’s wishful dream of spring.
Frozen icicles hang like exclamation marks from the roofline, snow covering the garden mounded lumps is our winter reality.
The cold air, oh so cold on my bare feet, makes me shiver with regret.
Bootsie meows for food, purring around my cold ankles. He must have woken up when I started to sleep walk downstairs.
I wonder if he dreams of spring like I do?