My nimble daydreams spin
the net I intend to toss, when
a speck of light tumbles past
me, a moth veined in the image
of a dry leaf, its powdered
gloves hungry for the rough
touch of weathered wall, wings
slowing in stillness to a sly wink.
Could this be a moth that dreams
of leaves, snapping its umber
kite across the thin skin of a
Monday, pressing wing to wall,
becoming before us all a tiny dry
leaf? The stray cat, whose shiny
coat I feed with egg yolk and ice
cream, falls at my feet, rolling
his dark ship over socks and shoes,
catching me in the net of his eye
like a panther lounging on the
forest floor among fern and spore.
What is important to the waking
dreamer? Only to court the
pebbles of laughter that spring
from the heart, my dreams released
like waxwings eager to pleat the
sapphire curtains of the sky: what-
ever I desire is within my reach.
THE LITURGY OF THE HOURS
Is there not a more exhilarating
time of the day than sunrise?
When those first fiery threads
of light fling themselves across
leaping with the meadowlark to
while insects strum the fiddles
hidden beneath their brittle wings.
They say of the City from above
that light shines all the time.
I can only imagine the ecstasy in
the heavenly congregation of flicker
and chickadee, as they compose
endless supplications from matins
to vespers, a bold exhortation
of praise cloistered in the mossy