In the valley of dreams you find wandering men who bury spoons in the snow.
If you’re a Freudian you think of spoons as the instruments of motherhood.
If you’re a Jungian, spoons are solidified long tears of the gods.
But really, why should dream men bury spoons when all portable instruments
are useful to travelers?
In dreams you must walk light as you can.
In dreams food arrives in rare forms.
Last night I saw my father (long dead)—he was playing a grand piano
beside a window.
Snow fell outside and he leaned into the notes
though in life he hadn’t been a musician.
I knew he was feasting.
Planet of the Blind 