shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Larry Schug

Page 1 | 2 | 3

Dream Song

In the noonday shade of a maple tree,
a woman of twenty sings a song for me,
a song I've never heard,
on a journey of its own,
passing through a dream.
On awakening, the song is gone,
words forgotten, melody faded as fog,
flown away like a migrating bird
to perch, perhaps, on the shoulder
of someone seated on a piano bench,
who will play this little bird's tune anew,
sing it into the ether,
send it on its way again,
seeking another receptive ear,
another voice to sing this song,
maybe some feet to dance it around.