Nancy Davies

Trees and Night
January, 2021

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It’s dark as a tree at night

and fraught with birds whose dreams

drift between my dreams, as if

their wings made us one.

 

And where do we fly, our dreams

lofting us like babies wrapped in silk

strapped to a mother’s back?

Do we fly to other dimensions,

do dreams weave that silk dimension

between revision of reality

and obligation to adapt and absorb?

 

It’s dark. The trees loom dark as

sinister forms on the street at night

when I’m alone. Timid, fearful

I put one foot before the other

hoping no attack comes,

no person threatens with a knife

demanding money I don’t have.

 

Ah, but I know these very trees, dark

and sentient with dwelling birds

whose silent wings folded and asleep

still circulate enormous dreams

of food and warmth, similar to mine

when we meet one another

in tomorrow’s newborn silk.

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