Category Archives: Dreamhouse

The Bedroom (Dreamhouse)

I am the place where you are held,
temple of the tactile
and of touching.
At my heart, you are cupped
in a kernel of breath, breathing
the sweet scent of comfort,
of trust, of rest.
In later years, my walls
thin like skin, that cup of comfort
is mimicked with pillows
and the circle
of yourself, your own breath.
For now, the texture of language
dissolves into a lace
of images
and silent sensation,
a living lace picking apart
old memories like threads,
then reworks them —
tally, turn, twist, and link —
frugally, fondly, forever.

The Nursery (Dreamhouse)

I am the womb of this place
(you are my funny little egg
racing about on your funny little legs).
I am your mother’s breast, your warm milk
(your skin is soft as silk).
I am your cake, your fresh bread,
your soup waiting by the bed,
still hot.
(your scent is not
less sweet than any of these).
I am the cradle, generations old,
the chair that rocks you, the doll you hold;
I am comfort and caution, never cruel;
I am time wound up on a spool,
the quilt that covers, the bird that hovers,
painted on these dear womb walls;
I am the net that keeps you safe from falls.
I am the nest
(you are all the rest),
never leave me.

Previously posted at:
Dreamhouse: Dreams: Nursery:
where it was last modified September 16, 1995 (but probably originally written in 1994).