It's decades ago; I still recall this dream:
I'm standing at a picture window in the night
Across miles of snow, even and white
Bright pinpoints alternately fade and gleam.
Each one — I know this — is a radio station
Sending signals out through chilly air.
Every one a voice that asks "Who's there?"
Piercing darkness in my imagination.
My signal, too, flies on its way
I won't know where or if its journey ends
But hopefully its words will reach my friends
And if I'm lucky bring, to night, some day.
Signals wax and wane through winter night.
I can't see you, but I'm warmed by your light.
©2011 by Kip Williams