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

World-weary

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

fantasies

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