And on the seventh day, the map altered the dream

Landscape flat at first
as a sheet, then billowing as 
a sea; ringed  
               with a crown of trees 
stretching toward the hills, where fog 
is thick as animal pelt— 
                        She tried to make 
her way back, though more often than 
not, she would lose 
her way. 
        Each time, she surrendered 
yet another word for passage: 
cypress, salamander 
                    perched
on an outcropping of rock. Just
as she woke, a current snaked
through her head—
                   every path
she crested peeled or sloughed away,
then thickened again like moss.
       The soles of her feet
are leathered 
              with such wealth; why
would she want to put flowers
in her hair again.