We rise while the town dreams
(if one can call it dreaming)
of confines, woes, and trite worries.
We slink from our sheets and sneak
down snaking garden paths.
Then, we frolic through feral, long grass,
wading through lace meadows
that ring the wood’s entrance.
We breach the trees,
and we dance.
Beneath murmuring leaves,
we clasp hands.
We chant,
and maybe, if we are lucky,
the tiny tawny owl hidden high
in gnarled limbs will sing, too,
accompanying our words with
rusty hollow hoots.
Wavering reds and watery blues
ignite the forest floor as we gather
around a fire and blaze beside its warmth.
Kindle and cast,
crackle, and laugh.
Our merriment ripples through
the deep night sea.
Wavelets gather
to flood town by morning,
to rush the streets in jocundity.
So that maybe tomorrow,
the town can dream
real dreams brimming
with wild, shimmering,
and untethered things.
pm poetry 