On Dreaming

White crows
gliding under auburn sky;
my grandfather, dressed as Pan
(Peter and the other both) flies
overhead, telling me secrets
between leathery wing beats.

Rainbow birds and foxes glitter
gliding between tree and wood
(not sameness -- in dreams, here,
the tree is building itself from bones
of the dead, and the wood is just)
speaking without wordsmithing.

We float and we burn and we speak
all the great and aweful things
we forget on waking -- words become
animals and animals become real.

And everything makes
a little more sense
than it does on waking.