She walked the park in evening hour of yellow light’s begin, ethereal of time and scene that brought her into pause, wonder, and thought that perhaps this world, in hour then, was no more than compose of one’s own dreams. For if the world was of her dream, she could imagine a truer light, more beautiful in reach of cast that seemed to seek engage with seeing souls—dream’s respondence to the Dreamer.
It was a strange thought, but such are dreams and private held beliefs formed of a lifetime of subtle wonders in affirm of absurd and wild Truth.
She walked in the yellow hour past winter sycamores in stand, further on, in different place, she came into the winter open of maples over lawn. In the low boughs she could see the dark maroon of winter buds colored in their swell.
Spring would not be long. It did not feel as winter then despite the short day hours. Air and sky and all her dream sensed in her a spring, and she was grateful for the feel, embracing enchant of its living way—life and world and soul in bloom.
Her daughter rested then, in covered stroller’s push, and she wondered—if she dreamed—did she dream too the hour’s light, and if she did, could she tell in the greater light of its become.
Sun flashed within the sky, waver of a bough before or, perhaps, sign respondence to her wonder.
She smiled on the dream shining onto her.
She imagined many things, hoped for many dreams. Secretly, she believed—by sign of light in its yellow hour—they could happen too.