Sometimes my dreams are fatal
To myself or to others,
Though I’m not near the kind
To be macabre to my sisters or brothers.
I don’t claim to understand dreams.
I just let them come and go,
Fragments of a wartorn psyche.
In Halloween clouds, such shapes will grow.
Not to worry, not to fret.
With every sunrise comes a sunset;
With every sunset comes a sunrise
And forecasts of crisp, clear, November skies.
by S.A. Bort
illustration by Celia Birtwell
