Traversing passed a moonlit glade,
I spied a nook where dreams are made.
A twilight windsong filled my breast
and cleared a notch where I could rest.
My windsong trilled internal hymns,
as moonlight peered through oaken limbs.
A wise old owl cooed in my ear -
"Compose a song for her, my dear."
A soothing psalm that once it’s heard
will soon be sung by hummingbirds.
Melodic notes that swirl and rise -
akin to lilts in lullabies.
Now in this niche where dreams ensue -
A songbird sings my song for you.
Copyright © John Heck