The mind in freedom soars as robins do
and like the larking red-breast, crows the day.
To cloud and sun, to high-perched tree-top's sway,
what realms deny it entrance? Very few.
To dream, to take in every breath and sound
from out the shuttered window and then weave
a garment full of splendored wonder. Sieve
the rude unwanted grit and live unbound.
All things combine. The motion of the morn
and candle flame. A breath and kitten's mews,
the creaking beams. But would I ever choose
a new made fabric and then have it worn?
This is the fancy best my life can be.
For dreams must wake, and wakened dreams be ye.
(c) 2011 G.Robin Smith all rights reserved.