when she awakened each morning
she took the thread of dream
still pressed to her forehead
like a stray hair
and tucked it in the old
green carnival glass bowl that
her grandma gave her
the one grandma once used
for the same purpose

and like grandma, she saved them
with the intent that someday
she'd take those iridescent threads
that flashed with headlight-bright
emotions and memories and magic
and embroider something pretty
for her own wall or maybe
to gift for her own granddaughter

but when the bowl eventually
became too full for the lid
(meaning the cat could try to
eat some of the threads
that was an emergency vet visit
she didn't need)
she ended up stuffing
colorful handfuls of dreams deep
into the trash bin
the melancholy of what might have been
if she had the time
if she had the inspiration
clinging to her like
a thread