There are small dreams
framed in small windows,
framed with wood
painted white;

a mosaic,
a honeycomb,
a matrix
of light.

Here,
filling with heat and sun,
here
the prayer begins

watching the gray,
the blue
framed by
bright wood.

No sound
fills
this cell,
this facet of dawn.

Here are slow dreams
moving in solemn swirls,
sounding softly
in depths
of light.

The air drifts in vision,
turns slowly to its task.