Trees and Night
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.