a voice of dream
cries out in the wee morning
from bunk bedded sisters
gathered in familial convalescence.
does she dream of
meals spread across broad tables,
dishes washed and dried and stacked and stowed away
clean and secret to be found out
by working hands
in dawn’s early light?
does she rise before her slumbering kin
creak down halls
tiptoe damp steps
whisper the still quiet kitchen
out silent unlatching
past separate cars vans trucks bikes
around behind this divulging barn
with her book of dreams
her hand of a thousand pens partnered in willing concourse,
to a misted glen
where wrens and sparrows
count her in their song?
does her pen cry out gathered joy
caught again by surprised pleasure
folding her reverent hope in its golden trance,
a congregation of dew bent grasses in thistled avenues
of prayer and response?
does she bless the wakening mist lifting
toward trees’ wry witness?
a lean brown doe,
testing her still presence
with flickering ears and curious pooled glances,
stitches a thoughtful path
through dampened grasses
beyond the borders of dawn.
Susan Weber