Ilona’s Curious Dream

white daffodil painting

One moony night, Ilona dreamt she was a daffodil.

Moderately tall, slender, leafy, and white-petaled.

Growing close to her in the sunny garden was her dear friend the yellow daffodil,

Who had an interest in faeries and all things fantasy.

While the daffodils conversed on themes poetical, as they were wont to,

The sun hid behind the clouds, and a boy-moth fluttered by.

He begged the white daffodil pardon, and then asked her for directions;

He was searching for a forget-me-not he had heard grew nearby in a clump of nettles.

The white daffodil beckoned to him, and he alighted on her leaf,

For it would have been impolite for him to perch on her petal,

Since they had not met or conversed before.

The white daffodil spoke to him of poets, for she was fond of them,

And he spoke to her of the forget-me-not,

And in short, they became acquaintances.

She gave him some directions to the best of her ability,

And to show her his gratitude he fluttered his wings,

Producing currents of air that tickled her.

Then he departed in search of the forget-me-not.

The white daffodil waved with her leaf goodbye,

And as she did so Ilona awoke,

And she was startled,

For she no longer knew whether she was an English teacher with a penchant for poetics,

Who had dreamt she was a white daffodil,

Or a white daffodil who now dreams she is Ilona.

PS: I wrote this to impress a well-dressed English teacher. (With modest results.)

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38 thoughts on “Ilona’s Curious Dream

  1. I love both the writing and the art. I did not know stylish-hatted word weavers wrote to impress. You were fortunate to find a well-dressed English teacher; I have only met those wearing the same thin orange, purple or plaid sweaters in the States. Perhaps they need hats to know proper English.

  2. This reminds me of a far-off tale akin to “The Little Prince,” or even Kafka’s “Metamorphosis.” You are gifted, dear hatted boy. I have to pinch myself to remind myself that English is not your native tongue…

    I’ve started counting planes… Wonder what number I’ll be at by the time I get to count them with you?

  3. “She no longer knew whether she was an English teacher with a penchant for poetics,

    Who had dreamt she was a white daffodil,

    Or a white daffodil who now dreams she is Ilona.”

    Perfect ending! Sounds familiar though, but still perfect.

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