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I could see and feel my feet
squishy, without shoes on deep moss, deep green,
my right hand holding a small ghost-child's
moist little hand in mine, such a perfect warmth,


when I noticed what looked like
fish in a shallow river, schooling and shimmering
in that freshwater fish way, just below
the surface, all on the same journey.


But they were not fish at all,
my dream-eyes deceived by deep sleep,
by the sight of all of the scissors I have ever
owned in sixty years, gently gliding by
almost blinding me because of sparkling,
the sunlight on silver, silver under water.


I thought three things: This is crazy.
This is so beautiful I cannot breathe.
This is probably not safe for the child.


Switching the hazy bit of child to my left,
suddenly you appeared on the other side
of the fishy, silvery, scissory river.
You, flickering on and off like a broken hologram.


I called out to be careful but you misheard me
and replied, "Not all of those scissors belong to you.
Some are mine, mine, mine...",
in an unexpected echo.


Yelling louder above the clattering
river of scissors, I shouted, "All of them belong to us,
technically, dear." But you had faded away, as did
the ghost-child, frightened by loud voices.


Both of you, disappearing,
leaving me alone with muddy ankles, moss between my toes
and far too many scissors for one person,
as useful as they are, even the pinking shears.

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