I sit beneath this tree,
and ponder on the clouds;
and in the sky are castles made,
fashioned by my hands.

My hands become the breath of wind,
my thoughts a weaver's loom;
and in the sky I weave this thread,
to make the many clouds.

But each person this dreamstuff spins,
making real the fancy of the mind;
every man, woman, child,
weaves this web with me.

Yet as I fashion all these dreams
upon my cerulean easel,
I cannot help but wonder:
do the dreams fashion me?