Jocelyn was the queen of storytelling in our little camp.  She was usually quiet, full of mystery in her smile and wonders floating in her hazel eyes.
But when the nights came and we were with her, she would open up like a flower and tell the most intricate stories and poems.  Some of them she wrote down, but many were from the heart.  

This night was no different.  We were all camped out like girl scouts on a field trip, except we were in cabins.  We were signed up for a volunteer program for the summer, traveling all over the country to help clean wildlife preserves.  For some, it was the chance of a lifetime.  They could use this experience in future forestry or ranger job applications and such.  Others, however, were forced to come instead of going to jail.  

There was one instance where I got to sit with Jocelyn.  She was a normal looking girl, with brown wavy hair and freckles.  She looked lost in thought most of the time.  When I asked her why she joined, she simply answered in a dreamy sort of voice, “It’s inspiring.”

That night I was lucky to be bunked with her.  A good lot of the girls had come to our own cabin just to hear her speak.  We were all awed by her voice as she told tales about spiders.  Each night was something different, an animal or scene we could all relate to.  Many left unwillingly when the leaders called for lights out.  But I got to stay.

As the lights began to go out, I heard her whisper,

Petals of black dreams stare
You always leave
But
Sleeping floods will use me
She tells of fall forest like
Luscious light licking still music
In repulsive power
True purple asks all
“do none”

I didn’t understand the poem at all.  “Did you make that up?”

“No,” she replied.  “I heard it somewhere.  It’s my favorite poem.”

“Oh,” I answered quietly.  We spoke no more that night.

That night, I had a dream.  I was at a river, and sunbeams were lit upon a person in the distance.  As I got closer, I began to recognize the girl.  She was holding something.  But it ended suddenly as dawn awoke the team and we had to leave.

Days past and I soon forgot the dream.  I was busied with laborious tasks and fun activities alike and slept hard every night since.  And I learned more about Jocelyn.  She had a rough life at home.  She had a flower garden behind the house she lived in, and her parents were actually guardians.  Her real mother and father had divorced and things were still not yet decided on whom she’d stay with.  
“I’d rather not stay with either,” she told me once.  “I love my little garden.”

That same night, I had the same dream from almost two weeks ago.  And from that night forth, it kept coming back.  I tried everything to reach the person far off.  I called out to her, but she couldn’t hear me.  I walked to her, but I woke up before I got close enough.  But I kept remembering details.  She wore violet, and she held whatever Jocelyn told about in her nighttime stories.  It was strange.  

Our last day came all too soon, but the dream still followed my mind.  In the afternoon, we were allowed to go walking in the park we were in.  I went out alone to open my mind in the woods.  This trance was bothering me a little too much.
I found a river, and it reminded me of my dream.  I sat next to it, thinking maybe that girl would come.  Waiting soon let my mind wander, and it brought me back to the poem Jocelyn recited that first night.

Petals of black dreams stare…

Sleep soon overcame me.  Then I saw her.
It was Jocelyn!  She was wearing a purple shirt and smiling at me.  I realized this time I was not far away from her in this dream, but lying on the ground while she sat holding a flower.  A clover flower.
She continued the poem:

You always leave
But
sleeping floods will use me

And I finished it:

She tells of fall forest like
Luscious light licking still music
True purple asks all
“do none”

She and I shared smiles, then whispered,
“Wake up!”

My eyes opened immediately.  Darkness had fallen and my heart leapt.  I would be late and everyone would be looking for me.  
But my body felt at peace and didn’t want to move.  I looked for Jocelyn.  She was gone.  Was it really a dream?  Had I really been awake?  My head spun.

Then I spotted a patch of clover flowers next to me.  I smiled.
The poem finally made sense.