Cells of longing sleep beneath
the bed of earth, a dream-in-waiting,
whispering in the shadows,
knowing more about us than we do ourselves;
knowing who needs a dream with thorns,
who with lilies, who will wake with a whimper,
who with sweet remembering.
I walk the labyrinth of sleep
under the tattered shawl of night,
jagged by time and the piercing points of stars.
In silent reverie, night bows
to the genesis of dreams,
incubates, nourishes, and in random excess,
like a gale, showers the world
with its mystery.