It is quiet. Dark. I can hear
my own breathing, the refrigerator rumbling,
the wind. I can see some moonlight
seeping in the windows.
Moonbeams showcase a pair of shoes
by the door, the tv remote on the end table,
and long shadows of wintry bare trees
against the snow.
I imagine a dance in the dark, a place
far away where we can breathe, laugh.
The rhythm of my own heart
starts to impede on my daydreams
which have turned into willful nightdreams.
They are vague moving pictures in my mind
of wildflowers and forest music.
The Word Rummager 
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