The dream nears its end as the doc pronounces: “Petalia.” 
I fight to stay on the knowing side of the sleep divide
to learn the meaning of this diagnosis.
Yellow light pools under sleep’s door toward me,
no stopping consciousness with towels or sponges.
“It’s a disease that —”
And I am awake.

Petalia. Petallya? Petal-ya? Petal-yall?
Since I cannot open and walk back through
the dream doctor’s office door
to demand the definition
I define it myself, Fictionary style:
   “Petalia, n. 1. The point in summer
    when the number of leaves on trees and plants
    reaches its peak
    after which leaf decline begins.
    2. archaic A forest fairy festival
    that celebrates peak leaf number
    and welcomes the decline that follows.”

I know now I’d taken my cherry trees to the dream doc
because great piles of yellow leaves skirt their trunks.
It’s artificial autumn three months early, for two trees only.
Blumeriella jaapii, you unwanted visitor,
you fungal pathogen,
Are you the “Petalia” in my dream?
Must I make you welcome,
or may I decline?