On three different mornings
this June,
as I started to wake
I was actively composing poems
while dreaming,
speaking them aloud
repeating them to myself
making sure I would not forget

While still one foot in the dream,
I resisted opening my eyes
to the insistent light
trying to sizzle in

Lucid efforts grabbed
some spoken words whole
and miraculously,
a phrase or two came along

For me though,
pictures of words last longer
than the sounds of words
so seeing books with titles
and signs on doors
added to the recall

Upon fully waking
I could still remember the shifts of transitions
the frantic rush of my struggle
I felt as though I had narrowly escaped
like a criminal with something stolen
—some kind of treasure from the dream world

I recall that time I dug a hole in the backyard
And found marbles, arrowheads and coins,
But the currency from my dreams seemed
far greater in value,
perhaps a one-of-a-kind key?
yet with what to unlock hidden

Now that it is late in the day
I begin to wonder
if writing poetry
while awake
is a way to keep dreams going