The dream lives on after I rise
And veils of sleep lift from my eyes
Though details blur and drift away
Like midnight fog at break of day
Or dew that sparkles as it dries.
I wrack my brain to memorize
The imagery before it dies,
For this must be the only way
The dream lives on.
But even as the last bird flies
And I am left without my prize
My inward ears perk up and they
Hear echoes of that nighttime play
That fill my heart; to my surprise
The dream lives on.
This was written near the beginning of the 2020 quarantine.