Under roofs of aging pine
Where the trees in rows align
I awake a forest doss
On a strip of golden shine

Missing shoes is not a loss
When I step a floor of moss
Feel the urge of turning spread
But the light I have to cross

All is faint that comes ahead
Staring at my feet instead
Then I’m left with just a nose
As I in the light embed

Pine cones fall under my toes
Where it’s going, no one knows
But I’ll keep the forest close
Forest close, forest close

Listen to the birds in the morning
Take advantage while it's still cold outside
Go for a walk,
A run,
Just to leave the house
Before the day hits 40
Your eyes still droop
But you ignore the pain in your legs
That came from lack of use
The songs in your head
Replace them
From the bittersweet and violent
To celebration and victory
As you lie in your bed
Thoughts still racing
With the battles in another story
That isn't yours anymore
Right now
You haven't seen the sky so blue
In so long
It hasn't felt like autumn in months
So go out
While this world
Is still cold enough to hold you

what is it about
dreams that
we want to
stay on it
even when there
are nightmares?

is it because it
does not mimick
one word
from reality?

Cold wet nose bumps mine
Kitten paws prance on my chest
Purring alarm clock...

Five is the witching hour.
Filled with thick fog, or
Perhaps vivid hallucinations.
Desperate with the need to dream,
Or desperate to wake and stand in the light,
Just creeping up into the inky blue of the sky.

Every time I glance out the window
The clouds have reformed into a new and more beautiful arrangement.
And every time I glance at the clock
I’ve wasted another hour.
After every time I eat
I wince and brush my teeth,
Every time I’m touched
I grimace and shake,
And every time I sleep
I dread the moment I have to wake.

The sun is already warming
the first arousal of morning
but my lover is traveling the hills
and valleys of her dreams still.

Sweetpea knows the sounds
of my awakening and abounds
onto the bed’s corner place
where I read my first daily stirring of grace.

She knows of all the places she could land
it is here she gets the glide of my left hand
my hand across her soft brown coat she is well-versed
for she knows this time of day she is first.

“Feline First,” Copyright © 2018 by Glenn Currier