Summer’s liquid sound blossoms
bruising evening’s tranquil bouquet
of lavender and milk
rendering sleepless the poet.

As crickets outchirp
the alternating waves of wind and rain
the poet walks
no…glides
on grass and leaves
clutching Walt in her hand
and questions
can ever such a line as
“in cabin’d ships at sea”
find its way to paper from her pen?
No, it cannot be
unless… it be but a dream.

The milk spills
Walt is wet
the crickets scream
she doesn’t care
Alas
she sleeps.