Writing poetry all night. Some call it dream. Some call it sleep. In the morning the paper is blank. Snow has covered the ink. The graves. The hollow reeds. The bird tracks. Then you wake.
Wolves
I sweep the floor,
but not beneath
your feet.
Your brow defends
the shadow
fallen there.
Frail sun leaves
ice unscathed
and windows cold.
Another winter
just begun,
bolder than the last.
Remembered warmth,
an empty glass,
pale worn out shoes.
The wolves are braver
this year, hungrier,
more brazen.
Inside, counting them,
I go mad as they
gather near the well.
What thick coats
they have, what eager
eyes and tongues.
What wild dreams,
framed by a rim
of naked trees.
I give a carefree
whistle, call them
to the door.
Songs and Letters, November 24, 2005
Winter Poems, Cosmopsis Books, 2007
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Categories: Songs and Letters, Winter Poems
Tags: Aging, Dreams, Poems, Poetry, Sleep, Snow, Winter Poems, Wolves, Writing
William Michaelian 