Last night I dreamt poetry, dripping from the ceiling, a word at a time.
Landing first on my forehead, then on heart, throat, belly, pelvis, solar plexus, soul.
My toes were last.
They stretched with the tiniest of words and rolled me over.
A drop landed on the back of my neck, expanding to my throat.
My voice is wet in anticipation.
Fingers (spilling words into the night) search for pen and notebook waiting by my bed – my dreamcatcher of ink-webbing bound to a sacred hoop of paper.
Belly on the bare sheet, I write, scribbles in the dark, sleeping between words, to dream the next.
Dear God, May these black marks illuminated by light shape-shift into words.
When morning rises, please, help my waking self know Love's midnight caresses.