Sandy Coleman and Jennifer Fendya

Sandy Coleman

By Jennifer Fendya

Inspiration piece

Those glimpsing moments as light

grows, when caneware walls begin

a slight glow and my feet, restless

at night, too eager, poke bare noses

out into chill air and scurry

back under downy blankets.


My palanquin, my bier, borne

solemnly through dreamland last night,

now a messy nest of sheets, pages

crushed and buried beneath my feet

when I turned to run from a grizzly

roaring up suddenly in my path.


Now, day, and its light insists on

day-time things, my feet, poised to march

   To-the-tooth-brush! To-the-tea-pot!

day-dream of darting almost

unnoticed, back under a blanket

of twigs and soft leaves.


I turn to look over my alarm.

My feet, suspended a moment, find

slippers and I fall into reverie, hoping

for a moment to glimpse a bear

and tomorrow morning’s light.



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