Radio

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

.