we dream and stretch and dream again
wrapped in wool and blue gray shadows
left by the rainy afternoon sky
we tuck ourselves among books and woven baskets
in the quiet gold and burgundy tower room
where she writes and wanders among old thoughts
the trees outside are mustard and wine
the clocks have slowed and fallen out of time
it’s a dreary day at our little home along the willow run
where we dream and stretch and dream again
