It folds me in, like blueberry jam,
so the wind passes over,
around me,
but I am warmed in the oven,
wrapped in my poem
as it rises,
as I swing out over the river
and waves lap all around me
to the sound of stars
singing in the breezes.
I can’t see them yet,
but they will rise,
I know,
in the night sky
of my dreams.


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 © 2005, Lenore Horowitz