Sonnet Eight        

I dreamt of a melody, melancholy, light,
ariose and full of hope. When I woke,
half asleep,  I sat at my piano playing it right
the first time through.  When playing it again
a fog, a veil descended, notes faded into night,
a candle blown out by an open window's wind.
I realized I was still dreaming.
Come morning the melody disappearing,
on the floor luminescent turquoise seeming
ice art pieces of exquisite patterns placed
about were melting.  My bare feet wet, cold.
I saw moonstone, rolling glaciers beaming,
like last night's Nova documentary on ice.
I realized again I was dreaming.