November air, sharp and cool and still
Here I lie.
Engulfed within a field of swaying dreams;
As they stare-
The pin-pricked sparks on eternal light-
Can you hear them whisper?
An opal moon yawns a great white light
That washes the world in a lucid illusion.
My mind is lulled by the silence of a million stars
Back into dark woods
With milky blades piercing the sky;
And the carpet of pine
Softens my step.
The air was warm then and I was young;
Imaginations played their games
And fireflies light the heart
While embers of eternity
Soften the passage of time.
