In the midnight,
\nthe little boy opens his eyes.
\nHe cannot define his journey.
\nNight stays by the window.
\nHe dreams of a single flower,
\na mother\u2019s face,
\nthe air heavy with its own perfume,
\nand I find him,
\nfluff and feathers.
\nHis mother comforting his astonishment,
\nhis unnatural wakefulness,
\nhis false dawn,
\nhaving arrived,
\nbeing put back in his own nest of comforters.<\/p>\n
Gone for five nights,
\na child\u2019s long hiatus,
\nfull of night blossoms,
\nsoft, with his grandfather\u2019s voice.
\nAn ancient armory of meadows,
\nsongs, in the softness of his voice,
\nreassuring the boy he is loved,
\nat home,
\nnear to the warmth of a white magnolia,
\nthe sweetness of strawberries.<\/p>\n
Safe with parents,
\nwith the old man\u2019s eyes
\ngiving him absolution,
\nthe comfort of his hum,
\nthe waves of an old sea,
\nhuge for him.
\nFor his dreams,
\nfor returning to a peaceful bed,
\nmade of petals and milk,
\nand the honey of silence,
\nwith his mother.
\nLike a warm river of dreams
\ncoming from the south,
\nturning the night
\ninto a dance of peace and valleys.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
In the midnight, the little boy opens his eyes. He cannot define his journey. Night stays by the window. He dreams of a single flower,…<\/p>\n