Afterhours Ending
The bustle of the office peters out into soft old blankets,
and the scent of lemon balm.
Here, tread gently. Don’t make a sound.
Follow the stitch of flowers, spun round and around.
Here — have a seat at the center, on one of these carpets
pulled closer and closer.
Come, let’s talk paintings, slumbering tight
within their frames.
See the tired willows, drooping above the stream.
See the lamb-splotched fields, lost in dream.
The colors blur, dancing like fireflies over canvassed peaks.
Do you wonder if faded lace dolls
dream of hand-sewn sheep?
Here, the lazy river flows, curling its tail around
the mountain's rim.
Out there, the city grows silent, as night settles in.
Far above the ceiling, the last hoots of owls echo.
Dimmed lamps nod their weary heads upon their posts.
Rain patters in soft sprays across the window. In your ears rings an old, old song.
Shhhh. Rest well, dear wanderer. Rest until the moon goes down.