DREAM ON

Summer Morning Early

by Ms

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.