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Her pillow
pummeled then plumped,
beat to a pulp,
wet with tears
or sweat,

There’s so much to fear
in the dark.  But what is there,
really, to make icicles
inch down her spine and parch her mouth
with mute screams?

One wouldn’t fear the wind.
It croons and keens
and occasionally rages
but it doesn’t come in —
and the trees,

they love its bedouin flirtation.
There are the shadows, but who
would be scared of such dancers?
The limbs dip in time to their own drum,
the curtains swell to reach them.

The stars
don’t instill terror.
They twinkle and spark,
candling the night
with distant flame.

Maybe it’s the moon,
that good-natured round face
caught in a wink, sneaking
magic into her dreams;
filling her heart with wanderlust.

The moon
is a wise old scholar.
His head at a tilt,
he sees all
and knows there’s nothing to fear
but one’s self.

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