dreams come true

I could have been lying on the carpet in April, in the goldenrod desert 5 months pregnant, the weight of my uterus tugging me into dusted, sweaty mini-naps, or I was sitting at the table next to my 2-year-old her fingers making red hearts on construction paper drifting to this vision of my in-utero offspring years later, in your lap beneath a magnolia tree, on a grassy hilltop, your skin a goldenrod mist, smile wide and dimpled, in that deep impression beneath your eye, mirrored in my older daughters' eyes but I didn't know you then, didn't know we'd spent several years in homeroom together, my late arrivals, sleepy head on your desk, never speaking of the lake in the woods hidden by the evergreens across my street where you wandered on foot, foolery, and fever and I wondered what lay past my peripheral, developing the pre-sight that led me to your profile when you returned from a khaki desert I could only pick up past a page held long beneath my thumbprint and I rode in on goldenrod dust armed with this sticky knowledge that I knew I'd need to share but never believed you'd believe my bouts with deja true but hope lands, guards ins and outs, didn't stumble this time.