dreams melt easy
into places of home
a box in the attic
of truths
holding still
as little green stamps
held to a page
would buy us the heavens
– a treasure of will

feathering
shadows to dance
up above
the ceiling takes life
of her own
ushering thought
into meaning returned
wrapped in a blanket
of old

strange
our repentance
our surrender to more
than a dollar made do
with the coming
to whole
to see without seeing
to know
all we keep
where value is kept
in the attic
of soul

. . .