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Sunday, March 27, 2016

All the Little Pack Rats

All the little pack rats
pop their heads into their pillows
and puff the filtered air
as if innocence could float
through foam and feather
to and fro
as easy as a breeze

Follow them
for all they think
there’s more they know
no less than all forgotten
and all that we’ve been taken for
as we’ve pulled ourselves along
a trail of knots
both fresh and frayed
as twisted as any
sign of light might be
to the night-weary eye

Glittering shadows of dust
greet the sunlight
in dance
as dreary as anything that glows
yet still
as peaceful as the gentle pull
that glides us through here
and as easy as a breath

The sordid whines and screams
of daytime deserve no less
than to desert us
unto ourselves
if only to have
us listen
to the muted breathing
of innocence
muffled as it may be
yet with its depth intact

after a full week
of drenching rain
the only sounds left welcome
are those that echo
silence, those
that greet you
like a single wave
tracking to the edge of
of an untouched morning lake
one pulsation from the beat of life
sent to stroll its rolling way
across the perfect stillness
as if a rat
had held its breath
just long enough
to jump

So there it is
arriving as it will
in the dusted light
of afternoon
or here
pulled through
from morning
on its way
to wherever it
may take us

Forever riding
on the fluffed and foolish
as we find them
in the soft
near-silent breath
of such innocence
as lies tucked
into their pillows
as safe
and soft and caring
as any trusted cloud
could be.

 Maine 8/92


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