Some people call them dreams, but for me

They are things I look down in my pillow and see.

I saw some birds, as many as four,

That were all blue wings and nothing else more.

Without any head and without any feet,

Just blue wings flying over a street.

And almost every night I see

A little brown bowl that can talk to me,

A nice little bowl that laughs and sings,

And ever so many other things.

Sometimes they are plainer than I can say,

And while I am waking they go away.

And when nobody is coming by,

I feel my pillow all over and try

And try to feel the pretty things,

The little brown bowl and the flying wings.

MISS KATE-MARIE

And it was Sunday everywhere,

And . . . Read More