The Dreamer in the Bough


Dreamer in the bough
hears music I don’t hear—because
his head is bobbing, eyes closed,
mouth open, tongue machining
words not sung. He twists to
aim an eye at me, then allowing
the wind, the rustle of the leaves
to sing and breeze the feathers
he forgot he had,
begins to dream again.
I beam and send back silent words
such as dreamers with their
unloosed ears can hear, their
souls can feel—
I love,
I love,
I love you.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!


Gabriel Muoio



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