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“Dreams All night the dark buds of dreams open richly. In the center of every petal is a letter, and you imagine if you could only remember and string them all together they would spell the answer. It is a long night, and not an easy one — you have so many branches, and there are diversions — birds that come and go, the black fox that lies down to sleep beneath you, the moon staring with her bone-white eye. Finally you have spent all the energy you can and you drag from the ground the muddy skirt of your roots and leap awake with two or three syllables like water in your mouth and a sense of loss — a memory not yet of a word, certainly not yet the answer — only how it feels when deep in the tree all the locks click open, and the fire surges through the wood, and the blossoms blossom.” — Mary Oliver