I took this photo during a chilly evening walk in Eze. I couldn’t roust my fellow travelers from the warmth of the restaurant for the trek up the steep hill into the medieval town. So, I found myself alone with the magic and the Christmas star. On my return home, I wrote a poem entitled Dreaming into the New Year.

Winding down,
new memories as yet unborn,
asleep before the celebration arrives.

Drifting through dreams.
Slivers of imagination
fluttering in secret nooks.

Walking through midnight spaces
that hibernate
until eyelids close and my mind dissolves,
then burst into exotic avenues
brimming with intrigue.

Dreams conjured
by a capricious master,
Liquid dreams,
wild with passion.
Desperate flights
on wingless arms.

By act of will,
demons are banished
on this eve.

Dreamless sleep
as old as childhood,
as fresh as the next breath,
welcomed.

Sanctuary found
in unconscious grottoes
shimmering with pools of blessings.

Restored.
Energy harvested like golden sheaves
to feed a year of tomorrows.

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