a “sonnet”: your flock of dreams
WHEN the day creeps in to your flock of dreams
and scatters them, their pastures forsaking
where once they gave themselves to you for taking
to gather their wool under silver beams
of the Moon that also fled away, it seems
from the callous wolf of daily waking
even as the promise was a-making
of a forest fairy-tale, the which beteems
with mirth, all nearly bursting at the seams
now extinguish with the day’s hard breaking
and all those pert and nimble spirits scattered
leaving only you, to yourself alone
when all the words and things that mattered
seem all at once transformed to stone
against the which your hopes are shattered
and despair steals its way into your bones
and leaves you feeling bereft and battered
in this time, think upon the seeds you’ve sown
amid the plot you call your soul, your own
secret garden, within those walls of stone
which keep them safe until at last they’ve grown
