By Jennifer Fendya
Those glimpsing moments as light
grows, when caneware walls begin
a slight glow and my feet, restless
at night, too eager, poke bare noses
out into chill air and scurry
back under downy blankets.
My palanquin, my bier, borne
solemnly through dreamland last night,
now a messy nest of sheets, pages
crushed and buried beneath my feet
when I turned to run from a grizzly
roaring up suddenly in my path.
Now, day, and its light insists on
day-time things, my feet, poised to march
day-dream of darting almost
unnoticed, back under a blanket
of twigs and soft leaves.
I turn to look over my alarm.
My feet, suspended a moment, find
slippers and I fall into reverie, hoping
for a moment to glimpse a bear
and tomorrow morning’s light.
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