Her dreams are sepia toned.
Gently aged,
memories muted and soft.
Nostalgic.

She dreams of bright sunshine,
trees and flowers,
fluffy clouds in blue skies.
Laughter.

Dreams of love, joy, and hope.
Hoarded, preserved,
doled out in hard times.
Treasured.

Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming.
Life passes her by,
the beeping of monitors.
Constant.

—

Let me go, let me go,
says the lark to the elm.
No, says the elm,
for you do not know yet how to fly.

Let me try, let me try,
says the lark to the elm.
No, says the elm,
for you will surely fall to the ground.

Let me fall, let me fall,
says the lark to the elm,
At least I will have had
the wind under my wings just once.

No, says the elm,
Fly or fall, you will leave,
to where I cannot follow.
And I could not bear to lose you.

I will return, I will,
says the lark to the elm,
To your branches or to your roots,
I will always return to you.