My Wife's Dream Journal

Nancy keeps a journal of her dreams;
Moths that flutter in out of midnight darkness
That she's caught and penned between blue lines
In a spiral notebook, pale butterflies of night
Beckoned by brain neuron light.
She'll release them to dream interpreters,
Who'll share, analyze and classify them.

I hold secret the sacred content of my dreams.
I don't need a Daniel to interpret them, or wish
To bring them to read to a discussion group.
It's just dream-life, something sickly pale,
Excretions of the unconsciousness,
Pus secreted in fantastic rivulets of visions;
The night sweats of a fevered mind.

Yet even in deep sleep I can distinguish dreams
From reality.  It's as if there's a part of my mind
Standing aside from the action, observing,
Yet detached, like Rod Serling as he steps into view,
The smoke curling up from his cigarette
As he submits commentary 'for our consideration'
After an opening scene from The Twilight Zone.

I can always spot some incongruity in my dreams;
Something that stands out like a boundary stake
Or a cairn of stones that's there to remind me
That it is just a dream.  Perhaps it's a friend
I've made recently appearing where I worked
Years ago, or an inflatable Miller Lite chair
Mocking the formal setting of my dining room.

It's a surveyor's marker that's there as an aid,
Like cleats on my boots, or a sturdy walking stick;
Something firm to take hold of, like a handrail;
Something solid to help me keep my balance
On the slippery slope of dream perspective,
A compass to show me where I am, to keep me
From falling prey to nightmare-spawned madness.

On her desk lies my wife's journal of dreams.
Does she dream in color or in black and white?
Does she dream of a beach and a sun-bronzed surfer,
Of cuddling with some country-western singer, or
Is she riding behind some tatooed biker?
Are her dreams as practical as she is?
Is she immersed in her dreams or aloof like me?

Now's my chance to find out.  Her gathered dreams
Rest within easy reach, as enticing a read
As an older sister's steamy diary might be.
Should I violate her trust?  Should I trespass upon
What visions the dream-weaver has woven for her?
No. I value the privacy of my own nocturnal realm
Too highly to feel comfortable with invading hers.

Besides, I might discover in reading her journal
Just how far I've fallen short of her dreams.