In my dream. Ivy, stone, and spit. A rock garden at the end of a mile-long entry. A pond for the birds and wildlife.
Solace in the wood structure that meets the eye head-on, never making any excuses for its existence. It lives.
A kitchen that is sturdy and smells like everything good under the sun. An extended trestle table for the family.
Lights and shadows in the library, a roaring fire in the living room, bedrooms infused with comfort and sanity.

In my dream. Wonderful people and pets that behave. No gloom or dust would invade, nor bad spirits or demons.
Mirrors in every room in the house, all calibrated to reflect the best of me, the image that’s in my head and heart.
And the music, oh my the chords of peace and tranquility with a sly note of the devil for good measure as always.
Fragrance of herbal flowers and old cedar chests waft through every corner of as if the old and the new are here.

In my dream. The end never comes. It’s one day after another of the joy unattainable on the rocky sphere I left behind.