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 read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio



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