Cirrus

Enbalmed so snugly in your halting flight

The strata of my dreams each come alive—

You take wing with the grace of clouds. The hive

Of dreams assault our dark repose each night,

And play what weeds they may in their own spite

I fly on still, protected by your five

Small fingers as they snake around my life,

And all my sight washed by your flighty white—

I, in your halting flight, concede my needs.

The angels play their melodies to calm:

When through your clouds my rustling in the weeds

Awakes you, softly steal to me: I’ll wrap

You tightly in my arms, and with the balm

Of slumber, I’ll snare you in Love’s old trap.

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