Dissolving with the darkness,
last night’s dream eludes my recall.
Was there a storm?
I have a sense of wonder
but whatever it was,
it is gone. I only hope
it was not a poem.
The trees have leafed out now.
I no longer see the town
from this hill. The sky, flushed pink
with promises of dawn,
keeps its secrets about my dream,
guarding memories of the night
as if it wrote the script.
Flute music time travels into my mind
from hinterland – maybe
from a symphony unheard on Earth.
I might not be awake yet, but if I am
the day is new enough to escape
the parameters of that proverbial box.
This waking up – it’s quite the thing!