The Fabric Of A Pillow Pressing Warm Against My Cheek
Ben Mitchell
Dishes cry silently from the counter.
I fade into the warm world where I have my own yard
and July sun trickles
through the full blown leaves of apple trees,
pears and plums. Their rich bark crinkles green
with lichen in the speckled shade ... a cat
howls from the kitchen.
She wants to step into the February snow.
A body sinking, independently holding
its restful posture as the mind searches
the house in brilliant daylight,
blending into patterns of wallpaper fruit
the slight curve of feathers
falling slowly though the air ... telephone
red flag screaming, alarm bells
and everything inside me should just get on with it.
But something quiet clings to the pillow warmth,
the soft adhesive of my eyelids.
Daylight mist clears to reveal a vast horizon
spreading out at speeds
approaching that of stillness.
