There’s a bucket of dreams
hanging off my pillow with fingers
of thoughts twisting my inner gears
into faces from yesterday or
childhood where summers warmth
was pure with mornings lifting off
the aroma of dew soaked canvas and
blossoming lilacs, jumping into morning
before the birds and the dust of breezes.
I’m pulling back on the gold of sleep
while raising the curtains over my eyes,
trying to remember where I just was
and every word released while tucked
under the veil of sleep.
Roger Singer 