While Lying in Bed

The ceiling fan growls
like a frustrated dog
chasing his tail.

I watch but the mirror
never blinks,
it continually stares
at a spot on the wall.

Cars pass in the street
and tell me it's raining.

The clothes
on the back of the door
are matronly women
who offers kind words
at a funeral.

I try to remember a story,
the plot of a dream
where tall trees have fallen
and the still quiet song
of a sparrow
unravels grey sky.