Poetry of Dreams

The Wanderer of Needle Brook

I’d sit where the moss meets the silver flow,
On the banks of the Needle Brook,
And dream of the lands where the wild things go,
In the pages of a book.
To where I would fly, or where I would run,
Was a secret that only I knew—
To the hidden side of the setting sun,
Where the shadows are velvet and blue.
I would dance upon clouds like a dusting of snow,
And catch the gold tail of a comet,
Searching for fires in the valleys below
From a jagged and frozen summit.
I’d plunge into oceans of sapphire and green,
To swim where the leviathans play,
Or ride on a tiger, fierce and unseen,
Through jungles that swallow the day.
I’d pace through the silence of sun-whitened sands,
Where the sphinx and the pharaohs sleep,
Touching the dust of the forgotten lands,
With secrets too ancient to keep.
I’d vault over craters and silver-rimmed moons,
To taste the cold breath of the stars,
Hummed by the wind in the shifting of dunes,
And the red, lonely iron of Mars.
I’d tuck a stray spark from a comet’s bright hair
In the pocket of my quiet mind,
And breathe in the scent of the thin, mountain air—
The coldest of gems I could find.
I’d carry the weight of a jungle-cat’s purr,
Or the salt of a sea-dragon’s foam,
To keep as a secret, a soft-glowing blur,
On the long, lonely journey back home.
I’d leave the high mountains and celestial foam,
To return from the stars and the mist,
And find that the brook was the path leading home—
The only place I was truly missed.
I’d fold up the edges of every bright dream,
Far beyond where the wild things rove,
And find my own place by the slow-moving stream,
Where the water carves out its own groove.

©️ Deborah Seale Schnadelbach 2026