like a sleep-warmed dreamer

how a strategically-placed jar of pickles
or bowl of cat food can make all the difference
(meaning: this moon,
how it gets me in the gut
like a lover
gold and sublime
just climbing up out of horizon
like a sleep-warmed dreamer out of bed
and because the cat bowl is now
on the roof, i stand on a tree stump
to reach it
and because i stand up on this tree stump,
the mighty riser
comes into view
at its ultimate gold-glow-ginormousness moment
and then again (that was last night, and the following is tonight)
because i decided i couldn’t eat dinner
without pickles, i stepped out
into the sharp teeth of a biting cold night
to fetch a jar from the root cellar
and there it was
all over again,
the gold wax wafer glow
the color something
like yellowed paper
shining through skeletons of winter trees
as i descend/ascend
the root cellar steps)

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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