When senses run together, dull in the rack  
Of night, it’s Chaos who culls true meaning.
He mocks the light of day in paradox  
Sings: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
The ****** end, embodies the souls watery  
Beginning, and so the beating star is all
Intermingled; until flesh and fibers are done,
Thus: ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
Though mighty Jove, who beat the antique world
Down, cast poor Agamemnon his fate, it’s
Helen of Troy whose aisling breaks like doom,  
All from the strain of Leda and the Swan.  
For, ‘we are such stuff as dreams are made on,
And our little life is rounded with a sleep.’

Silent pond ripples—
She dips her toes in water,
Soft *******, stiffen.

The warmth of day lingered on, shadows played a sweeping sun
grassy swallows swooped, grey dusky light
colors of day, drank away the meadow
in skies of yellow, blue

Wind of wild roses, a thicket swirled sweet the night
flower petaled breezes swept the air
in fragrant fields of dream,
beneath the moon

There she goes, my old flame
Her kids have grown, all left home
She still looks the same

Is it fanciful to claim
After all this time
In her heart a tiny part remains
That is forever mine?