Rune Staircase

I dream that I have magic runes, clay or stone mini-tablets each inscribed with a word or letter that flow together to make stories and poems. As I descend long winding stone stairs with damp rusty stains toward the courtyard of a castle, a soldier runs up the stairs, sword swinging at his side and bumps me, knocking my leather bag of runes so that they scatter down the long stairs. This so upsets me that I awaken. I ask Keith if he is awake and he mumbles he is. I say that I have spilled my words on the stairs and to be careful. It is difficult to speak. Each word is extracted painfully from a deep shadowy place, drawn slowly out and deposited into an oddly foreign night. Then in a rush, I say, “Or maybe it was just a dream, probably it was.” He says he will watch for my words. I go back to sleep thinking it was a dream and dream it was not a dream. It is morning and I walk down the stairs of the house in Grosse Pointe Farms. In bright morning light, I see my precious words strewn down the carpet-covered stairs. As I pick them up, they form the words of a breathtaking story, but when I wake, the story is gone.