WHAT WAS SAID IN THE DREAM

The man was setting type. He was not alone in his dream. He is the one coming down the mountain. The same man. The man driving pulled his small car off the highway to let others pass. It had nothing to do with black ice or snow. This was only about the mountain. So happy in his dream holding the composing stick in his left hand, nestled in curled fingers with thumb over the last piece of type. Gravity holding it. Then there was spilled type. The other voice spoke,

Oh, you're sowing type. No, he said, Setting type. But I meant sowing, sowing type, she said.

He gets out of bed at this point, looking for his notebook. He wants to write a poem to his son on the mountain. He wants to thank his son for all he's given his father.

Jim Bodeen

4 February 2018