The ten degree cold made us stoic. In our bold synthetic coats we, they a brother-sister duo and me carrying groceries, passed each other on the bridge and none of us spoke, because our words were bound to freeze in our tense, shivering throats. Back home, susurrations of rubber on cement whispered through the insulated walls. By the radiator James proclaimed that he "needed" spring. Mary Sang, "Shhhhh," and put green slippers on his clay feet. Still the static of his cloth couldn't spark a solitary flame, and still we didn't see the transformation of snow into rain, sweet springtime rain; blame it on our clinging to the man-made 365-day calendar year, which is like trying to fit an entire galaxy into a notch on a watch thermometer, the diameters do not submit to fit our finicky frame of mind. A blanketscape to escape to as the cold unfolds and unfolds, that'll be your solution until the earth's revolution brings about April ablutions that will wet the whistle of all creation. So just be patient. I know your mortality and fair-weathered vitality is a-aching. But soon there'll be trees to climb and springtime love poems to set to rhyme. See-saw poetry. Swing set poetry. Yee-haw poetry! Is-it-spring-yet(?) poetry.
Allow me to paint you a picture of a dream that came to me on a frigid night. My father's dogs, Bruce and KC, went up against an agitated porcupine in the hilly backyard of my parents' humble abode. The porcupine, as a defense mechanism, released purple flower pollen from its flared nostrils, meanwhile its spikes or pins looked like curved knitting needles and they stood erect to protect its light brown fleshy furry body. The dogs chased the porcupine, and finally KC pounced onto the porcupine creature and put it into the death grip of its jaws. The animal lay dead on the grass behind the shed, but upon close inspection it looked as though the porcupine morphed into Bruce. KC had killed his brother Bruce, not the rebel porcupine vermin.
In another scene, a marsh formed in the backyard and people appeared in the water and swampy vegetation, floating on inner-tubes and other floating devices. Out of earshot of those people, I made fun of one of them who was old and mentally ill. Then someone informed me that the individual I was mocking had fell dead a few days before, and after hearing that I became empty and sad inside.
The scene shifted into an unfamiliar living room, where a friend and I discussed a sales pitch for our new innovative scissors extension device. It was a doodad with long parallel plastic ripples on it that you attached to the handles of a pair of scissors. The exact function of it I can not tell you, because, to be honest, I don't really think it had any functionality, remember it was manifested in a fickle dream scene. As we were going over our talking points, practicing, a sketchy-looking character entered and took up a spot on the couch near our prototype for the scissors extension device. The guy blatantly, with no concern with us being right there, unhooked the attachment from the orange-handled scissors and pocketed it. He was attempting to steal our design for this profitable doodad.
Then I came to in the waking world, to ponder the random reveries.