Tiny yellow butterflies <br />stop kissing purple tips of sage <br />to dance inside my eyelids <br />as I try to nap <br />gentle reminder <br />that my time to fly is now. <br /> <br />I dream of bread dough rising <br />on the window-sill above the sink <br />yeasting warm <br />over-filling the bowl. <br />Never mind <br />what spills down the sides <br />will be a poem. <br /> <br />Sleep is full of images <br />half-formed, the tail <br />of a kite I cannot quite catch <br />yet sweet as strawberries <br />glazed with morning dew. <br /> <br />THe butterflies have done it. <br />I wake up, knowing <br />that I too must drink the lavender <br />if I would seize the tail <br />and ride the kite to heaven.<br /><br />Lois Read<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/purple-quaff/
