Summer Morning Early
Under the beloved comforter, still
unwilling to relinquish that weight,
he tosses into the too bright light.
Aging eyes, their fading sight
recoiling, want shade, a cooling glade
where none, but in a dream, can grow.
Dreams don't dream themselves, you know.
The dreamer paints an arctic night,
inventing where he's never been.
It's pleasing just to be, to be imagining
a Winter's constellation--the great bear
plodding to his cave for hibernation,
stops, drops the dipper into color waves
which break over him in swirling mists,
slaking his unbearable thirst.