Dream, Sikkim.

Your dream. A vision
of noiseless rivers foaming
in the distance, while
a monastery touched by calls
of ravens, lights a lantern
the moon sets

over the mountain’s shoulder. Simmering
tea pots, on them the sage’s fable
inked like a lucid memory

recited by shut eyes. The floor
cold from the season, pressed
by the music of toes. The sun rises,
its first arrows
piercing the village with joy.