Cicadas drone in stillness as I weave
a basket out of paper clips.  My dreams
interrupt my wakefulness.  In a sleep,
I let a dullness entrance me.  So green
and siren, it deadens my wits to lull
my thoughts into semi-cohesive worlds.

                         • • •

Toy trucks, teacups and trees — immortal worlds
of childhood where faith and trust lace to weave
inspired ambitions, where courage can lull
frustrated minds to ease and peace with dreams
of daring adventures and heroes, green
with youth.  Such are the worlds we put to sleep.

For we lose our youth, fearing the mortal sleep,
and we gain old age in search of safe worlds
which promise to immortalize or green
our withering souls with comforts that weave
around brave struggles and passionate dreams
for paths of temperateness, hushed like a lull.

We long to wake in that still, eerie lull
before the tempest of death, yet we sleep.
We slog through worries, unsloughed, yoked with dreams
untried.  But, come home and return to worlds
of simple wonders — a newt in a weave
of tall reeds, a child’s blush, naive and green.

Time's breath of fire, raining auburn on green,
quiets summer minds to a reflective lull.
During our autumn of suspense, we weave
gossamer thoughts in our moments of sleep,
a miry fusion of disparate worlds,
of false realities, truth-bearing dreams.

                         • • •

Three hours have passed.  Returning from blank dreams
of nowhere, I watch a ballgame on the green.
Four boys about six imagine that the world's
eye is on them; only I and the lull
of day marks their game. . . My foot's gone to sleep.
The rain comes down, crisscrossing like a weave.

My grandma used to weave a tale to lull
me to sleep.  I would then fabricate dreams
where worlds would always be vigorously green.

-Tsai