I dreamed of fresh-mown lawns last time I slept,
and there were no tracks and no trees and no
yellow spots to mark the dandelions and no matter
how far you looked you couldn’t see the house this
yard belonged to.

It must have been a nice house with a three car
garage and at least three stories. There’d be
pillars out front, I bet, to hold up the balcony
that walked out of the master bedroom so
the gentleman that owned the place could always
watch his guests and enemies come and go.

There may be a fence off in the distance,
making a long, unbroken circlet about the yard
and lining up the property with everyone else’s,
so there wasn’t any question as to who’s grass
was who’s.

Perhaps it was a magnificent stone wall instead,
so as to keep this perfect green as beautiful
and lush as possible, however untrue it may be.
Then, it may have been a picket line, but why
would the gentleman spare any expense?

The drive out front had to have been cobbled
and clean, mortared every spring to repair the
breaks and cracks from the winter season. The
traffic would be sparse, of course, as the
Gentleman only has so many friends who can
match his stature.

The pool would Olympic-sized, weather Olympians
swam in it or not. Or perhaps the gentleman
forwent the swimming pool, and made a glorious
fountain instead. It would be gilded with gold,
I can only assume, and would sit at the mouth
of his great, fine, shrubbery labyrinth, the
aisles of which he has never wandered.

Or perhaps it was just the perfect field. After all,
I tend to dream silly things when I’m having these
dreams of mine.