I dreamt of enormous
floral pictographs
painted onto rock face
by women who scaled
vast, sheer cliffs
—with waves drawing
and pulling and crashing
into prismatic iodine spray
and riotous roaring sounds
down below—
to gain purchase
when they climbed
deftly on strong arms
with delicate footing
carrying just enough
pigment to leave a
momentary mark
on Mother Earth.
I dreamt that these women
carried out this annual rite
to color the seaside
in honor of life, of love
of renewal and gratitude.
I dreamt that I was flying
that I could soar and see
all the versions of beauty
the curl of this rosy petal
the swirling of that
acid green leaf over there
the plump blooms
in lavender over here
the hints of tulips on a
wave-washed cave
by the lip of the sea.
I dreamt that the
region was an
explosion of colors
and that women danced
on the clifftop
in the moist grass
singing with a reverent air.
I could not understand
their words, but it was clear
that the song was one of
hope, of trust, of welcome.
The Earth laughs in flowers
Ralph Waldo Emerson
once said.
