Dreaming on a rainy morning

The midnight rain washes nothing,
but saturates the thin air.
Spreading like water on silk
leaving the night heavy and wet.
It seeps beneath my sleeping eyelids and into my dreams,
Pouring in a racing sheet across the desert,
Flowers growing in a mud rush behind it,
Until the horizon is flooded with meadow.
As I stand on the final rock,
immovable as Excalibur,
my feet smoothed into the shale
as though the artists thumb had pressed down and over the surface in a
firm caress.
Everything grows toward me,
Ribboning across the plain,
Sand weeping softly as the water laps across,
Then groaning with the weight of safflowers.
Until at last, the tide is spent,
stretching one last rivulet toward my rock,
perhaps to release my cracking, mossy feet.
But there is an empty space beside me,
And the scent of coffee,
And all dreams recede into dawn,
Leaving me with nothing
but mist.