Someone said that in our dreams we write plays like Shakespeare which we can’t do in real life.I think dreams are like poetry.They use images,metaphors, and puns.
I dreamed my husband has bought me a house in Ealing [Healing?].And even if we don’t remember them they go on in their hidden life sorting out our daily impressions and excitements.Making play with them.
And sometimes those who write poems will have an experience where there is more in their poem than they knew when they wrote it.Because the act of writing makes images come up from the dark fertile earth of our minds.I didn’t consciously think about the meaning of sleeping on winter leaves before I wrote the poem below.
I have sifted earth
I have walked the silent paths of grief Sunless,dreary,cold and all alone. I have slept on beds of winter leaves. I know that death’s a greedy,grasping thief. Although my heart weeps and my joy has gone, I have never felt I was deceived. I have learned that human life is brief. I have learned by sorrow we’re undone. I have sifted earth and what’s beneath. I have felt the dark emotions in me seethe I've felt cruelly mocked by glaring sun. I have learned the geography of grief. I wait in sorrow for my life to cease Yet some are never loved by anyone I have dreamed in beds of winter leaves Unconsoled grief can make us dumb Into our hearts, we drag the ice that numbs I have walked the silent paths of grief I have made my bed on winter leaves.