By John Thomas Tuft

In the driftwood of the imagination

That’s fashioned by our sleep into beckoning dreams,

The unexplained can find reason and

The magic of the unbelievable becomes all too real.

For when we lay our heads upon our pillows

And the veil of Hypnos enfolds us in lullaby’s tune  

Both monsters and princes tread the same paths within

Lest we pretend we are simply waiting for the moon.

For the moon cares not whether we sleep or rise

Or name her Hunter, Wolf, Blood, Harvest or Blue

She can only reveal our dreams to some passing star

And that is the treasure we gain by waiting for the moon.