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.