Tumbling

I think, though

count not ever say,

to my own satisfaction

an inside joke,,

That I have always dreamed of beauty

In one I built a library

a maze of endless texts

I which I whiled away, a gardener

And spoke in golden arcing pen

In another I sat waiting

At an unknow forest edge

Dense with mists, wine darkened

Round trees that clawed the heavens

and knew no mood or sun ahead

In one I gave my eye away

In another sailed the sea

But what I fail to word or meter

is how they're each the self-same dream