Mbd's
My Big Dreams
sleep on the wings of saints.
They become vaporous
and airborne
colliding with
baptismal raindrops
balancing themselves
on a million
patterned snowflakes
to only then slip, slither
and snuggle
into the bosoms
of future white rosebuds.
Burning dreams
glitter in cahoots with Polaris
creating a brouhaha
loud enough to wake the dead.
Their dressing rooms
may be seen in the tunnels
of L. Frank Baum's
ebon cyclones
or possibly meandering
between the fragmented lines
of a Lewis Carroll novel.
Carefree and capricious
I see them
listening to the silence
near twilight;
secretly conversing
with rainbows at dawn.
Those precocious pixies
seeing me laugh aloud
during unexpected sun showers;
as I gleefully observe
a smattering of umbrella-less fools
being gloriously
splashed and plunked by
My Big Dreams.
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