In early hours of new night
a flashlight guides the way,
past cars and houses
and sleeping mouses,
to stones old and gray.
Then pipe embers burn
as the earth turns
from normal into new
scents and smells,
ideas held,
from purple into blue.
Spells are cast
and memory lasts
of the far off places
in our secret hearts.
People dance in sitting there;
goblins and angels have new faces,
and dead words are raised to life,
reminding us of good and graces.
But we mustn’t tarry
in this late cemetery.
Tomorrow greets us too soon.
We must away ’til another day
for some reverie ‘neath the moon.