last night I dreamt of flowers—
location unknown—on wheels
in trunks full of soil and bits
of leftover sand from two years
and six hundred miles away.

purple pussywillow and golden
something-or-others,
aromatics all away, saving space
for dreamy details like
when time jumped,

the uncontrollable way
that only happens in the stem
of a restless mind,

and the flowers were gone,
stolen. petals like fingerprints
at the scene of the crime.

islamic interpretation told me
dream flowers mean joy. 
others say they are purity.
delicacy. virginal innocence.
beauty.

the waking world is wavering,
and for the first time we acknowlege
with wide open eyes, pupils dilated,
the weight of words like
“this time feels different.”

please, please. let it be different.