five tiny toes press
against my lower back

the ones who lost their sock
in the nightly tumble

dreamers seeking warmth
under an old fashioned quilt.

Together we float
away from shore

from visions
in glitter and glory

for some more intoxicating
than a quiet night

or a simple raft
in a wordless sea.

Condensation of possibilities
the impressive pieces of life

form above us on a starry ceiling
temptation to open my mouth

and taste.
Again they press

the persistent five
pulling me back inside

the me I love most
the one not swimming

but content to drift
into the open storm

little hands and feet
tucked below my ribcage

a wooden boat
of unspeakable joy

that somehow always
remains dry.