Smuggler of Dreams
The New Moon can’t be trusted.
Rather than float her darker
face as a shadow dotting
the brilliance of the sky,
she hides behind a blue mask.
Still the glassy surface of my
inner pool grows agitated,
my vision blotted and obscured,
as if a storm should darken
the horizon, or a great wave
loom and crest above my head.
Night comes. The Moon winks
as she sets, a slit of light that finally
confesses she has spied on us
all day. She pushes the Sun
over the edge of a cliff and
covers the deed in darkness.
As she slips away, she cracks a lock,
opening a door at the back
of my mind, so all the thoughts
I held contained by day
creep out to animate the night.
Dreams bring disordered, broken
shards, loose images, scattered bits,
some light and clear, some dark and
blurred, some missing altogether.
Night’s altered tale is hard to
grasp. It won’t conform to rules of
logic. Still it seduces me. I linger.
At the Sun’s next rise
I smuggle dreams inside my mind,
secret as the Moon’s dark face,
into the world of light.
Copyright © 2007 Barbara W. Klaser