The weary sun tip toed through crochet clouds
To darn lace curtains with golden needles,
And to sign its name on criss-crossed trickling waters
Making shadows bow down low in obituaries
Of another fading day, and on distant
Wandering memories, a lark faintly sang
As she settled on the meadows of her birth.


Between the twilight’s whispered conversations
The censer of peace sprinkledserenity,
As somewhere beneath the old stone bridge
A song thrush drank from a stream of dreams
In the newborn night, and it felt wrapped
In it’s own silence, as the only sound around
Was the forest breathing through the hours of shade.


And a dream paused in a sense of what was missing
To make its silken instances come true,
As just across the stream a cottage’s lights still glimmered
With so many subtle expectations held inside
Where she waited for her dream to come and find her
As she softly strolled through satin sprinkled sleep
With such a sense of déjà vu upon her moon touched pillow.


And then her dream came tip toeing through her open window
Riding on an errant wandering star, to wait in a hushed corner
Of her bedroom, until she wandered further into the depths of sleep,
And on the midnight hour, she entered into her dream, and all at once
Her face was dressed in a beautiful smile, as her dream caresses
Held her heart and soul, until the rising dawn peeped through
Her fluttering voile curtains, and tickled her awake with the sun…