Purple Dreams
She looked up as if expecting me,
or maybe just the wind—
it was hard to say.
A teacup floated beside her,
steam curling into the shape of a sleeping cat.
"Stories," she said, "make the world wobble just a little less.
Do you have one about a cloud that forgot how to rain,
or a fox who dreams in third person?"
I didn’t, but she didn’t mind.
She handed me a pebble that hummed,
and a leaf with a tiny map drawn in dew.
“Follow this only if you grow tired of gravity,”
she said, vanishing into the ivy,
like mist fading from a memory.
I stayed a while, just in case she came back—
and because the mushrooms had started to sing.
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