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.


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