Cobwebs of the impossible

It was a clear day…too lucid, perhaps.
Mother sat in the kitchen; the sunlight made her white hair into a halo.
I asked how old she was?
Ninety-two, she said I knew this was not true she didn´t live that long.
By the slow river, I saw furniture drifting along,
brother said people living downstream went upstream to buy furniture
to save on transport costs they dumped the furniture in the river
and picked up when they came floating by.
Sometimes they lost a table or a commode, a risk we all have to take.
Walking along a soft road in the forest, but something was wrong
I was trapped inside a painting by a mad Russian painter,
Where trees emitted light of wonder, and my mother was 101 years old
I had a knife, cut the painting in half and walked out.
Sometimes the line between reality and subconsciousness merges
perhaps yesterday is today.