BY DR. AGONSON
I hope we dream again,
but soon the dawn will break.
I miss the gentle rain
so soft upon the lake.
But dreams must always end
before the morning’s done.
I thought of you, old friend,
the day I saw the sun:
Dividing dark grey skies
its beams, like razors, hewed,
and there before my eyes
an arch of varied hues.
And so, the rain did stop,
the lake grew very still,
I heard from some treetop
a blessed warble trill.
I hope we dream again;
I fear it’s not to be.
I miss the pounding rain
upon the stormy sea.
But dreams must always end;
ours ended long ago.
You’re such a silent friend.
I fear unspoken woe.
Tale Told 