What About Dreams?

Yellow pants I don't own,
dancing in a place I've never been.
Familiar eyes lift to mine
and I feel my dream-life begin.

Some dreams feel real,
the experience of imaginal me
robust with validity
and ripe fodder for inspiration.

At times I've wondered:
"Where do I place them?",
those significant experiences singing with truth...
how do I think about in waking life
what happens while asnooze?

This morning,
I don't think it matters.
Just as well wonder why birds chatter,
or how to think about a moonrise
after it's gone.
Life moves, ever and ever on.

No stopping, 
and all sense-making rendered irrelevant
in the truth of the dance.
I live for the hell of it.

I live to live,
I live for life.
I tried asking why,
tried spilling my blood with the question
until my veins ran dry.

It didn't work.

Not because of elusive truth
lurking hidden sight-unseen,
but because there is no answer.
A dream is...
yes.
A dream.

So what does that mean?

It means we'll make sense however we wish.
I met a woman from LA 
who swore she knew 'how it worked,'
offered to explain it to me.
I declined.

Not because I doubted the conviction in her eyes,
but because I'm too busy living now 
to waste any more time on 'why.'

Last night,
in whatever truth is mine,
I was blessed with strong hands
that touched me so surely
all weight was abandoned,
and my love found it could fly.