Dreaming

I think Autumn is the proper time of year to write about dreaming. Early evenings and dark mornings incline one to delay the inevitably chilly rising for a few spare minutes beneath a down comforter or heavy woolen blanket. Those minutes invariably stretch on in dreams and half-dreams, until one awakens, surprised by the dim, foggy light and insistently-beeping alarm clock, and rises to begin a new - if not entirely desired - day.

Dreaming

Old Morpheus has swallowed up the sky,

to walk the ways above our shadow-flush

and flit from bed to bed, where bodies lie,

in shifting shades that ride the drowsy rush.

Two escorts lead the lonely monarch on -

slack lethargy and windless weariness -

who prime the gears that turn until the dawn

and set them spinning with a deft finesse,

and all the souls that they have sunk in sleep

recline in readiness. An airy breath

slides off the brow and under tallied sheep,

to settle in the eyes, as dark as death.

Then shall we drift, unhanded by his dreams,

in torpid tow, for nothing's as it seems.