At the Edge of Sleep

 

By Stephen Mead

Long white feather appears, laid on blackness

between velvet and silk, this slightly arched

horizontal quill, its edges having something bluing

with every barely separated tip.

What to make of this pearl sheen luminous in itself?

Is this the spirit weighed for heaviness or lightness?

Hover, drift-----

Fluff, post-blossom, now showers streets,

blowing scenery to flurry-squalls, but dry, soft,

achieving depth to cup up, scatter by lips kiss-

puckered with sparkling breath:

Poof, whoosh-----

Another summer is coming

and these signify next year's spring.

Weave them like cotton, terry cloth,

all the towels and smaller folds for washing

fresh from the laundry , that large hospital linen cart

of tiers like a mini apartment complex with shelves big enough

to stretch out on.

Pull out a gown, robe, blanket, so many fresh

with steam-heat still to comfort flesh in need,

flesh, sponge-absorbent, ooh-ing the ahs

of yes, yes.

Back in this bed a poem of thought only

is yet awake enough to feel memory is to be held,

given shape, before it goes churned under morning's fog

as an impression of touch longing to come back.

Souls born old find the means to retrieve this

or with acceptance let go, lifted deeper with age

as ingrown trees tell time with rings circling.

Wake us grateful with that knowledge

or send us blessed to have been and gone

just the same.

About the Author:

Stephen Mead is a retired Civil Servant, having worked two decades for three state agencies. Before that his more personally fulfilling career was fifteen years in healthcare. Throughout all these jobs he was able to find time for writing and creating art. More details about the poet can be found here: