Purple Quaff Poem by Lois Read

Tiny yellow butterflies
stop kissing purple tips of sage
to dance inside my eyelids
as I try to nap
gentle reminder
that my time to fly is now.

I dream of bread dough rising
on the window-sill above the sink
yeasting warm
over-filling the bowl.
Never mind
what spills down the sides
will be a poem.

Sleep is full of images
half-formed, the tail
of a kite I cannot quite catch
yet sweet as strawberries
glazed with morning dew.

THe butterflies have done it.
I wake up, knowing
that I too must drink the lavender
if I would seize the tail
and ride the kite to heaven.