A tender seasonal gust of leaves
Scoops my dreams up
And rush them through the ajar window.
A fine-toothed comb
Brushes through my knotted thoughts.
It is as though the morning is left
Sitting, half asleep, out there
On one of the distant isles with nothing
But a lighthouse to keep it
From leaning back into the darkness
Of the pre-autumnal night.
This is the heart of melancholy;
A wistful longing, a vague memory of safe harbor,
Scraped away by the rawness of beautiful sunny days.
A dream with one leg rooted in summer pasture
And one leg winged by the mystery of night.
There is a galaxy spinning
in the darkness
Behind my mind
Unrelated to any thought within
Just a million transmitters
Crashing like stars on fire
Into my subconscious dream vision
Igniting my soul’s desire
To find home.
When the transparency
of the moon
closes the distance
and the mist
lifts its veil
to reveal snow
on sunless peaks
that is when
you and I
in the hills
of a distant dream
we will fill
the night sky
with our memories