I voyaged by night
 

When all thought me asleep

And the winds of other worlds

spiraled

             through my pencil’s point

onto the page,

the blank paper

                        always the best gift

for the solitary child I was
 

                                          this time.

I overheard the mysteries

then dreamed them

                              into tales

yet to be written,

illustrated

                  by the brush

that moves the hand.