Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. ~Edgar Allan Poe
I believe flowers give birth to dreams, that dreams reside deep inside the flower, that the soft, sticky pollen is dream in solid form, that the color of the pollen determines both the intensity of the dream, the pastels, the pale yellows the billowy blues, give dreams as ephemeral as spider silk swaying in a light afternoon breeze while the deep colors, such as the reds and navys, give dreams passionate as a first kiss between lovers, colors tell if the dream will be heartwarming, a memory sent to us by a loved one that has already passed into heaven and is finally free of pain as they walk gilded streets thinking of us, or nightmare causeing us to awake thrashing, soaked with sweat, bones chilled to ice as if death chewed on us in the twilight between sleep time and awakening.
I believe hummingbird is the messenger on who’s emerald wings dreams pass from the flowers to our hearts, that twinkling blue hummingbirds hovering before ruby throated flowers gather sweet pollen on thread like tongues. They fly to us under the cover of night, hover next to our heads whispering the dreams borne of pollen into our ears, flick their tongues planting sticky pollen grains deep into our hearts ensuring dreams are never more than a sleep away, ensuring dream is available to us whenever we close our eyes.
I believe, when there are no more flowers to grow dreams, when there are no more hummingbirds to plant those dreams in our ears during the little death of sleep, man will no longer dream, will no longer feel the heartfelt messages of loved ones long past. And without dreams, elixirs inspiring creativity to sprout from deep within the soul of man, without dreams creativity will cease to flow, devoid of creativity inspired by dreams man, himself, will cease being human.