I know not how the dream received its’ cue–
(Or whether the sky was black or blue)
Nor, too, do I know when
(Either by muses’ pencil or pen)
I tumbled into the blinding white–
Seeking quickly to make things right, as
Words soaked up from the sheets
Weaving into the wrinkled pleats, and
Draping in folds of stories untold,
Bequeathed their suffering to be told.
And in the writing it fell to me
To write a thousand wrongs.
And as the hands tongue was loosed,
Tears wedged in the white linen wove
The Watermark of the soul itself.
Now, awake, I set the pages upon the shelf–
Knowing when and if the need arises,
I may come again and help myself.