Now the wavering sleep of a young boy beside a green river.
White sun-drenched field with tall poplars. Water lilies
like pools of leaves floating on the surface reflecting
yellow light. On a rock he sleeps, curled, on his side,
like a Z. His bronzed right arm flung over his head
(his small mouth barely open), legs bent at the knees
and kicked out behind him. The delicate wind stirring
the brown hair from his eyes is like a wife's
hand, years later, lifting him from another sleep.
And the long, plaintive musical notes from the trees
descending into his body. In his dream
he sees a wren spiraling among leaves, then
he is holding an endless piece of blue string.
He drifts back and forth, in and out of sleep.
Above him, a blue towel hung inside a tree,
a slanted magical light striking the dark leaves.