“We are such stuff as dreams are made on”
William Shakespeare, The Tempest.
We soar past sleep,
stop to eat
the stars—swallow as they glide,
outside and within–
of such stuff, our dreams begin
to flutter-float, winging high
to fly upon some glittery boat
then with a quivery sigh,
they drift away, whispering goodbye.
A quadrille for dVerse. Lisa is hosting and asks us to use the word, “abide.”