Back brace off. Careful. Don't flex. Don't stretch--don't now.

I was dreaming. There were grass and hills, walking and running.

Oh there was a shop, a gift purchased.

Was there a dog? I think so.

I remember much talking. A man. Was talking to me.

Turn--slow--and sit up slowly. The house is very cold. Legs over. Stand now. Straighten. Very straight. Slow.

Made it. Spasm week has ended, I think. No more brace. Husband will be disappointed: he liked me with the cinched middle.What was the dream?

Seems like Anthony Hopkins was looking deep in my eyes and lecturing. I remember lectures, classes.

And there was riding about in cars. A convertible full of laughing people. Women with lipstick on, smiling men in shirtsleeves and dark oiled hair combed back, cracking jokes.

Soothing dreams, then. Compensatory. No real recollection, unless a flash comes later that tears it open so they tumble out again. I slept too hard maybe--sleepless the night before last, last night I crashed early and slept 10 hours straight. Even though I drank plenty of water, on my waking the dreams rushed away with the tide they sailed in on.

I see outdoors through the window streets and lawns and roofs lightly powdered in fresh snow. It will be gone by midday, but it's a pretty sight, with the just-risen sun's yellow light streaming under the loose east edge of the overcast.

Will husband come out? I was hoping not, so I could write awhile before the words in my head get exploded away by someone else's, like bowling pins ... Sometimes they lie in perfect patterns just waiting to be copied down, but even a whisper of "good morning" can shatter them.

Yet I crave his whisper. It's the paradox, the conflict at my center--words or persons? Persons or words?

I don't disturb him. Let him stay awhile in his dark room if he needs to. I've made it through silent breakfast and now I'll head back upstairs to my own bed, to my keyboard under the skylight, under the snow.

Careful, though.