My gazebo floats
as if some dreamer blundered
into my reality,
not waking yet,
and shared his vision with me.
Never mind it is filled with birdseed.
Wings and song,
birch trees and dense fog on Long Lake,
foam piling up around the rushes like
Kingfisher dives into light and ripples,
throw another pass on my loom,
green and blue yarn of spring.
My dreamer will come home with a friend tonight,
hoping he can catch the Spring Peeper melody
and rest in Red Wing Blackbird cries
for business as usual
trudges in melt-off memories
She is more whimsical than that.