In My Pillow

When Mother or Father turns down the light, I like to look into my pillow at night.

Some people call them dreams, but for me They are things I look down in my pillow and see.

I saw some birds, as many as four, That were all blue wings and nothing else more.

Without any head and without any feet, Just blue wings flying over a street.

And almost every night I see A little brown bowl that can talk to me,

A nice little bowl that laughs and sings, And ever so many other things.

Sometimes they are plainer than I can say, And while I am waking they go away.

And when nobody is coming by, I feel my pillow all over and try

And try to feel the pretty things, The little brown bowl and the flying wings.