what the light in her makes possible

in the dream
first it was a book i was reading
which then became a movie
and first i was watching
and then i toggled back and forth
between being the lead character and watching the lead on the screen
or reading about her in the book
and in this movie-book
the lead character/me and her/my sidekick
were on some vigilante/avenging mission
which involved multiple hunting down and striking out endeavors
against a young man and his sidekick
and we’re talking brutal:
(a poker on a long-ended stick plunged into the windpipe,
for instance)
the movie/book interspersed the horrifyingly brutal acts
(of which i/the lead were the perpetrators)
with innocuous scenes that lasted forever
(a social gathering,
a long walk,
etc.)
horrifying in their own way because of not knowing
when the young man and sidekick might appear
and either be further horribly brutalized by me/the lead or
be avenging the avengement
or both
and then
the final scene:
a group of friends (including me/the lead and sidekick) hanging out on the beach
playful and lighthearted
and then, enter stage left
the brutalized man
his hand not even really a hand
held together by black electrical tape
and him staggering
and tattered, unable to focus
either mad with the rage of revenge
or just in the brainfog of shock/trauma
walking with a dragging foot
into the water
and the audience/me watching
and me as lead and audience
on edge
not knowing if he will see me/the lead
(and if he does, if he’ll recognize me)
or just keep playing there in the water
a husk of his human self
not even once looking our way

_______
awake to the sound
of a hawk’s screech above
and the hushed rush of creekwater below
_______
first the mango slices
the mandarin slices
the grapefruit slices and then
mahogany slicing the mahogany-made-bread
and tossing the pieces onto the woodstove top
and we feast: nut butters galore, homemade jams galore, honey and sorghum galore, and miyoko’s butter
_______
the forest earth soft beneath our feet
while we dig in with our bare hands
or the heels of our boots
truffle snuffler i say
about the dog of a friend of a friend
who helps that person sniff out truffle mushrooms
in the woods
_______
the rough rusty/mustard colored skin
of the salamanders
still or moving winter-slow
at the bottom of the puddles
in the low spots in the forestry road
that we encounter on our farm/off farm walk
_______
the great gust that swoops in
while we carry wood into the common house
for the potluck night stove fire
and then the rain that pours down
and how all i want to do
is curl up and read
_______
the darkened room glowing brighter
with each tea light
lit off of solés sourcelight
while we take turns offering appreciations
for what the light in her
makes possible in our own hearts/actions/spirits/lives
_______
the young kids with dreads
the adults with flowy pants and skirts
the guitars that eventually are busted out
and the three salads on the counter
plus pies and coconut ice cream too
hippy community potluck in the common house
caricature of itself
and home not home to me