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DILEMMA

The poem is near.

At night it rummages
tickle-footed over my sleeping hands.
When the full moon invades my bedroom
I sense where the poem shivers
helpless in the snow.  From eye-corner
I spot a quick flick of a tail,
glimpse and hear it
when summer winds rustle
through trees rimming the lake.

In the dark, sometimes I feel alien
fur brush, flexed claws drag,
hunched body tensed to spring, 
stalking me, fangs dripping

The poem is near,
         yet never close enough.

      

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Copyright 1989 by Mildred A. Rose,

all rights reserved.
Originally published by The Music House Press.
No part of this collection may be reproduced,
except in short reviews, without the
author's permission.

Feb 07, 2012, 02:49 PM CST

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