All night, she thought she heard storms, or were they just dreams?
She thought she heard a voice speaking in dusty dreams.
She was so sick that she could never go outside.
So she planted a small garden of trusting dreams.
They shared the same chain. One barked; the other did not.
She polished her collar, told the dog rusty dreams.
Her shoes were always too small or too big for her.
So she escaped only in breathless, gusty dreams.
We fall from the sky by the hundreds of thousands.
Open your mouth, Kit. Be storm, not a musty dream.
Photo by Patrick Hawlik on Unsplash
