There’s a mirror on my dresser.
The kind that folds.
as I sit on sleep’s edge,
I cast a covert glance
to a conscience that looks back at me.
On any night,
I might see
what age and regret have done.
Or, there may be the saving grace
of a wistful smile.
Remembrance of a fleeting love.
Dream birds of the night before
come to roost.
To set sleep’s mood.
Visions, often, of perilous depths.
Miles of mist,
bottomed by devilish waters calling.
A plummet, appalling and unredeemed.
A waking with hammering heart.
And next, divided by night or chapter,
a buoyant flight, away and up,
above the rolling green.
So simple. So natural.
With one who has been, too.
We hover over clover,
and, in my stupid innocence,
Are my feet off the ground?