The 215 Dream, as it was told to me….

Act 1
THE 215 DREAM
Birth

Scene 1
THE WHISPERED WORD OF LOVE

…from her flight exhausted.

With mortality she slept: weary, empty, fragile, dry.
Cautiously it ’proached what it had never seen before;
nudged and rubbed to see if death had entered.
It dared a salty taste, a sunny lick;
learned she wasn’t; felt that it must cherish.
Having neither hands,
it carried water and sweet grasses in its mouth.
It pushed her gently to the shades of daily sweetness.
At night it purred hope’s lullaby and kept her body warm.

As she awoke, her memory bespoke.
As she remembers, so shall it be….

You must go to Earth and solve it, Delia Urchin Fair!
Prove whereby a dream is given!

Before her eyes are open
(for the reason must be won),
she recalls

the place and fills her therefore form: humanity;
the kind of day (specific school or other);
the time must be?
and its relationship to all that went before and is to come;
a translated definition of the weather….

In the beginning came the whispered word of love.

From twilight sleep my Mother said, “O honey,”
and reached her hand to welcome me;
“I thought you were a boy. I’m sorry.”

I hear her tone of voice so very well,
for she also often told me she said sorry,
not in disappointment,
but for a thought in error held
and therefore in apology.

In the beginning came the whispered word of love.
Without word would be no rhyme.
Sans rhyme could be no reason.
Sans reason could we wing it?

Erase the fence of space, the binds of time, Delia Urchin Fair!
You must go to Earth and sing it!

There is but One Dream, and it is of Heaven.
The number of our Heaven is two-fifteen.

Her name is Delia Urchin Fair.
Her duty is the tapestry of home.
She’s weaving multi-rhythm to a many beat
(transversion of the rainbow in camouflage discreet,
ever painting as she sails and as she smiles and as she weeps,
ever mindful of the golden pot’s pertainment
to diversities wild and sweet;
SAID which having driven many a mere mortal
into a trite retraction, as in causing and effecting,

“O man, don’t tell me that!
I’ve heard it so fucking many times before….”).

Warmth, courage, humor; compassion, love, humility, and wit;
there is no part of any It
she is without: Delia Urchin Fair.

You must kill off the hero, Delia Urchin Fair—
The concept of romance is fastly fading.
without a backward thought of the phoenix possibility.
So are many other once-beliefs.
The upward open palm only knows what flies away.
Ah, my prince! Not yet come upon the scene
and yet too late for all those dreams I never had.
It does not know what softly is to fall.
Will he take another role and other shoes?
Will he come an honest heroed lover,
barefoot, in forms too grand to dream of?

Late then, in November, a barely Winter tale began.
Frozen landscape: fog’s white cushion like a photograph adjusted.
Amid the soft and peaceful Winter,
air remained the temperature of skin.
And soon the flakes of manna fell
like banquets to the sounds of the key of A-sharp minor,
like a hymn in transmigration toward the key of O….

The doors open inward to the church I enter in a dream.
The stairs descend before me;
they climb upward to my left.
On scaffolds just above my eyes the workers keep on working
as I tell them ’twas the outside drew me in.

“What history has this?”
I ask, for the little I can see
holds me with a promise.

“When you take the tour,” they say,
“the answers to your questions shall be given.”

Inside the church within the dream
I know the tours are given
only when I am awake.

When I am awake the door opens inward.
At the windowed trinity
I pass the lavender-rose arched and leaded glass.
The stairs descend before me
down to Jama’s room and Jeff’s.
To Erin’s and Alexa’s
they climb upward on my left….

These are the Children of Delia Urchin Fair,
and for each Child there is a season:

The Child of Promise brings the time of Spring:
Nature’s artist, begetting wondrous things,
is born to be the Son, Bud of dreams to come.

The Child of Faith is born at solstice peak:
Sweet instant the light begins to increase
is Winter’s Daughter, where the Seed of future sleeps.

The Child of Fulfillment is born to reap
her own Fruits of joy from the destiny she’s sown:
It’s the bounty of the harvest that carries Autumn home.

The Child of Revelation in Summer sets it free:
Triumphantly she Blooms! Born to bear the ring
of the spiral counterclockwise that she brings,

for Once Upon A Time these are the Children.
And for each Child there is a season,
and for each season there’s a reason,
as the Earth spins out its constant story,
once upon the glory of the truth….

Love hovers over the village of the myth where they live,
high at the foot of that mountain over there,
low at the top of the valley.
It’s all one green from here,
but among it there,
like the flakes of snow, no two anythings alike.
Its own most expressions of itself they celebrate
within the mysteries of their faith,
the steep steps always leading to a higher still.
Time they share in wordless memory, and place,
their floating love recalling fantasies
they had not thought to ask,
and, “Happy Birthday!” the Child of Promise said.

He offered her the fabled Kingdom he had just created
that Spring he reached the confirmation age,
and she the age to reconfirm:
Five tiny spiraled huts are nestled and suspended
among the cliffs of driftwood
where the fairy banner’s wavin o’er that distant city
for the memory she had longed for unremembered
until it came a-hovering this place this time,
high at the foot of that mountain over there,
low at the top of the valley.

“Happy Birthday!” the Child of Promise said.