Dreaming, scheming and screaming in the wee small hours
Except I'm having to listen to the digital "Dream With Dean" and not this beautiful vinyl pictured at left because it arrived warped. That's kinda like waking up on Christmas morning to find out your toy takes batteries that you don't have in the house.
Ah, well. No big deal.
And, no. I'm not really scheming or screaming. I just liked the rhyme.
No, I'm just dreaming. Dreaming about springtime, mostly.
It was nice today. Warm. Wonderful. Would've been perfect without a whopper of a migraine. But, hey. Could be worse, right?
So, yeah. I'm dreaming of spring, of soft, sunny days and cool, quiet nights.
I'm dreaming of baseball, of Opening Day, of that childlike wonder that makes you all giddy inside when you eat your first hot dog at your first game of the season, spilling mustard on your scorecard, singing like nobody can hear you during the seventh inning stretch.
I'm dreaming of beautiful dogwoods, of daffodils, of deciduous trees in bloom.
I'm dreaming of a bed and breakfast by the bay, drinking an adult beverage at the bar down the street, and of strolling along the shore.
I'm dreaming of the day I can dance again and really mean it.
I'm dreaming of you and the night and the music, slow dancing, "some of the old song, Sam."
Until that spring is sprung, I've got a pocketful of dreams, Dean, Frank, Bing, King, cards and letters, words and rhyme.