You feel your bare feet
on that rug, walking toward
cushions that will cradle you,
pillows that will prop you up
just the way you like, to cozy in
with a book off the shelf.

OK, two books. Maybe three.

The clear light of outside
warms the space—
a little upside down boat
ready to shove off into
waters known and not,

its old wood seaworthy,
the color of ocean so clear
you can see fish swimming
beneath you, gentle waves
lapping, carrying you to

a place not here, not there,
but somewhere dreams
are born, sailing onto
pages just for you.

You fall in and, buoyed by
story, you float and float
and float.