five tiny toes press
against my lower back
the ones who lost their sock
in the nightly tumble
dreamers seeking warmth
under an old fashioned quilt.
Together we float
away from shore
from visions
in glitter and glory
for some more intoxicating
than a quiet night
or a simple raft
in a wordless sea.
Condensation of possibilities
the impressive pieces of life
form above us on a starry ceiling
temptation to open my mouth
and taste.
Again they press
the persistent five
pulling me back inside
the me I love most
the one not swimming
but content to drift
into the open storm
little hands and feet
tucked below my ribcage
a wooden boat
of unspeakable joy
that somehow always
remains dry.
