By

Beenie Donaldson

You are late

Weaver of dreams

Fountain of fancies

Perhaps you have

Washed by in the stream

Of their fleeing troubles

Rivers of thought

Vanishing in your presence

Leaving a trickle

You are late

Dear dream giver

Provider of peace

Perhaps you will

Poke your head inside

Through my curtains and say

"Sorry I’m late"

And douse the hissing flame

Of my weary mind

You are late

Shadow of night

Muse of romantics

And flowing time

Keeping it’s record

And reminding me now

As the clock chimes

Announcing a new hour

Of impending dawn

Weaver of dreams

Fountain of fancies

You are late

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