Synthesis

[71degrees]

Edit #1

Sleepless: eyes closed,
the open arms of an elm tree,
a mime show of shadows
spreading across mother’s rose
colored kitchen walls.

Each memory a cedar closet:
notebooks of unwritten poems,
a tin of icebox cookies baked
back in Wisconsin; dead limbs
of a winter birch in the side yard,
and father, as he lay dying:
femur, blood, urine; nothing
working, not even his dark sleep.

I dreamed about the strength
of this man’s trunk; his language,
his energy, the way his colors changed
year-to-year.

Who dreams about love
with an old year sputtering,
a new year tip-toeing in?

I wonder if he ever dreamed
at all?

I never asked.



Original

No one sleeps
they are, at least,
restless: eyes closed,
the open arms
of an elm tree,
a mime show
of shadows
spreading across
rose colored
kitchen walls

Who dreams
about love
with an old year
sputtering,
a new year
tip-toeing in?

Any memory is
a cedar closet:
notebooks
of unwritten
poems,
a tin of icebox
cookies baked
back in Wisconsin;
the dead limbs
of the winter birch
in the side yard
the dead limbs
of father as he lay
dying: femur, blood,
urine; nothing
working, not even
his dark sleep

I dreamed
about the strength
of this man’s trunk;
his language,
his energy,
the way his color
changed
year-to-year

As he lay dying,
I wonder if
he ever dreamed
at all?

I never asked.