that was the only way

to describe the night

she’d lane awake

restless and yearning

as a woman child will

unable to sleep, unwilling

slipping through her window

she had escaped

into a mystical night

the fog was thick

trees loomed as she wandered

hands buried deep in pockets

not cold, only alone

it was easy to pretend

she was far away

sounds came muffled

the bark was damp

where she touched

clearing the wood

the meadow was a bowl

of rolling cotton

as she slid open

the creaking barn door

her nose tickled by

the dry smell of

well cured hay

she climbed the old wood ladder

and opened the doors

on the east

nestled in the warmth

of sweet grass and hay

she slept till the sun

brought her home