As day sifts through the window, my dreams want
to point me to the light, to steal into my life.  

My mind tightens: let me keep their branching colors,
their blaze—I want them on the page. 

I need to write, to write their blue and greens, to keep alive
their dark chill.  The page stays blank,

I cannot hear the voices, see the swaying arms. 
My words should be a blessing,  

a bright richness, every day
when I awake.  Through them—through dreams—I think.