Were I to curl under 
the willow as if a cat,
drift to sleep while fireflies
shimmer amid the switches,
I would have no need
for dreams.

Owls glide past, knowing
I am no cat, dust me
with starflakes till my arms
twitch—the only movement
in the wind-still night,
the fireflies now retired.

These hours, dreamless,
still, star-sprinkled, are lost
to any who ignore the maps
that fairies sketched
when willow’s roots
first prodded the earth.