Title: The Poet Of Whom I Dreamt One Night Writer: Minerva Bloom

I dreamt of a Poet last night with gentle touch announcing:

"Let your FROST be warmed by my sun. It will liquefy … leaving your grasses and your webs bejeweled for it is water, that defines your land.

Let the moistured laden air be caught by my muscular mountains to be cooled, as it rises dropping its rain down your slopes lush with ferns and mosses sprouting ephemeral waterfalls that gush freshwater, into my oceans.

Let the first drops snake around my trees: Your streams dipping beneath toppled trunks kissing the forest floor in twisting threads, running along a rich carpet of greens-- glowing like liquid emeralds with my sunshine.

Let me find, at your sacred place -- especially your extravagance of greens.

Let me pick my way, along that shore of boulders to pluck them, from the mountains. In ribbons the waters shall flood into the gateways of my rich soil.

Let the mighty glacier busy himself hollowing out a bed, for your lake.

And surrender … for across this lake the clouds shall dance like gauzy curtains hiding, then revealing the wonder, the power, the beauty, of your land's coastlines."

[AND I DID. I SURRENDERED.]

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