We woke to wool and roses,
and the smell of wet wood
creaking in a hypnosis
that only we understood.
A dime of sun swayed
on a burlap bed
that, unmade,
cradled your sea-turned head.
We were marooned:
and to the seeping wind
we had become attuned,
our hardened hearts chagrined.
You woke with lips of salt,
and fistfuls of fabric.
Wool and roses, you’d exalt,
our unpracticed kind of magic.
Waking never lasted long,
and with the gulls you weeped.
Tossed across the sea nightlong,
waves carried us to sleep.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe