The Pillowcase Pond
When, in a sober reckoning
I, to you, come beckoning,
Plant my dreams along the pillowcase pond
Where verdant, grasping willows chase swan;
Their lashlike tendrils greening,
Against molting tufts now preening.
Sense in me, a brushlike whisk
That your ear, the softest disc,
Hears not its airy muse; yet oscillates
Within–a chord– where docil plates
Like glassine shards a-clatter
Spin above this worldy platter.
Dip fingers deep in ponded murk:
To well tune the polished work
Angels have wafted on wings from high.
For, no serener sound their voices sigh
Than this water harp so empyreal made–
Gift from His own glittering glade.
Extend His evening’s erudite perfume;
Convey a cottage her chimneyed plume.
The Holy and humble, both harbor a heart
Enchanted by prescient dreams at their start.
Firelit, each page–a-dance before the bed–
Lends its warming presence to a heavy head.
As I, in my sober reckoning
Still, to you, come beckoning…
Twila, c. 2007