I lie awake in the wooden room I have constructed in the woods dreaming of pretty things.
Knots like ochre eyes stare down from the oak wood panelling. Outside, the wind brushes up against the fogged glass laid into the side of my house, a feeble proxy to the coyotes song rippling through the ballooning darkness.
I built this home, all 275 square feet, lugging tools and supplies through the barren acres. I laid each brick into the fat black earth preparing the foundation, laying my life into it nailing each board around me.
When spring rolled in the trilliums poked through the earth to admire the commotion. Later came their friends: the mountain-pride, buttercups and harlequin lupine.
In my dreams, the lupine could become a cloak of royal silk wrapped around me, the King.
Golden ore and stalks of silver poking through the earth where trilliums once grew.
That night I dreamt of pretty things Shiny things still blotched my vision in those days. I didn’t yet have a roof to stare at late into the night, and the stars burned through the treetops and into my dreams.
Daylight was for building. Laying the hatchet into wood driving wood into frames, with little metal nails from the hardware store many acres away
Where men bought sidings and rope for homes with Ikea furniture, their wives wearing sapphire rings and golden hoops and all the pretty little things I dreamt about out here, in the forest.
Here, where sun cascades through my windows in the early dawn. So I close my eyes, and decorate the silence with dreams of pretty, pretty things.