Dream II

I dreamed I was in a small room,
in a long house, somewhere above the treeline.
There, I was bade drink, by a wan caretaker,
from dusty amber bottles,
the essence of what moves inside
our bound and meager bodies.

Anger I tasted, and it was bitter.
I was strong, I could move about,
but could find no enemy.
Happiness was thin and fleeting,
and blithe about my soul.
Peace met my tongue and flowed deep,
to bring together many waters,
set my voices to council,
walk me out in sun and shower,
let my nature dry, then moisten to its need.
I worked to open Victory,
from its reluctant lid,
and was satisfied until I found
that nearby Meaning was unfilled.
Thereupon I tasted a hundred more,
each a drop that filled a sea
with the fish and foam of being.

One more, Sadness, of which I drank the deepest,
for the spirit's firm and gracious bidding,
and there I was cut loose from my moorings,
broken and not filled.
With tears more right than any verse
I drank, collapsing at her feet,
shivering and at last home,
bowed and naked before the Nurse.