Pouring white down on my head and casting my skin bright blue,the moon wakens me, my mother calling me in my dream. Wind blows the leaves. When I try to find my eyes in the stillness of the stream, my hair is whitewater trickling past the shiny pebbles I see. The grass whispers, “This way, follow me”; tries to pull me to the path. My feet know the grass, they have made friends with many blades, and the grass has promised always to guide me through the forest. Its teasing and its tickling at my toes might deceive me, though. Trees still forge a cage, bars of darkness surround the river, the grass and me. Mother comforts me back to sleep, cradled in the crescent light, dreaming.

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ChaoSpirals