A poem before sleep.
How much folly is wisdom?
Yes, even now, in this dark,
as shadows thicken and night
breathes deep last light,
magic trickles from the quiet oak
arching, crooked and bowed,
over the thatch roof,
drips from each twisted branch,
seeps between each verdant truss
where mice scurry to taste its sugar
so they might, for a moment,
hear the ensemble of satyrs
strumming wooden harps
in a meadow of sleeping flowers
as dryads waltz with fireflies
in pools of folly and moonlight.