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.