My dreams have been bought.
Sealed up, prepackaged and shipped -
I sometimes pour them into plastic cups
and sell them at lemonade stands
for a dime or less.
Sometimes I put them into tiny jars
and contain them as cooking spices.
I store them on a high shelf
in my kitchen,
only to watch them collect dust
for months on end.
My dreams are rustling, dry leaves -
impatient, persistent, gone.
They've escaped me like prisoners
up into the depths of the north woods;
waiting courageously for redemption
on the soil of the spring floor.
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