Snug underneath Christmas Quilts
and warmed by memory foam,
I hearken back to a time when I could see my breath
while trying to sleep
in the attic of an old tar paper shack.
And even further back
when forebears snuggled under
robes of deer, bear, and beaver.
The rancher’s guns start going off at 11:55
sounding like thunder
when the clock hits 12 midnight.
Ironically,
I actually hear a war cry;
No doubt coming from a Missouri rebel.
Before I know it
I am sandwiched between my woman
and the dog who has crept up on the bed
to hide with us, from the storm.
At 12:05, all is quiet again.
We old folks roll over
and go back to sleep.
*Abita Biboon!
_________________
* Happy New Year!
So peaceful!
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Abita Biboon, my friend! 🙂
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A real poem. Ethel
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And the dance of time continues through the darkness that dances from here to there in the night. There is truth in this poem, and in the end it is good to come back from the echoes of the past to a bed where a woman’s warmth is.
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