Undercurrents
Waking in the
river of night.
Heart in throat,
cast adrift. Solitary,
save for the
small dog snoring
by your feet
beneath the covers.
Pondering how it
came to just
this: the shimmer
of moon, splay
of starshine seeping
through the blinds,
like teardrops staining
your pillow case;
middle-aged fears
stirring, plaintive, like
a child left
behind as the
family moved elsewhere.
You wonder, who
wrote this chapter
in the tale?
You catalog the
many stories, the
joys and griefs.
Certain they were
your soulmates, the
loves I lost.
The son, grown
now and with
a wee one
of his own,
heart of your
heart. Blood of
your blood. Bone
of my own,
now subject to
life’s inevitable fractures -
like all else,
crumbling. So tread
carefully. It could
happen to you,
waking in the
night to a
flood of clamoring
memory and muddled
dreams, leaving you
to quietly mull
your halcyon years,
to number your
blessings, to seek
for sleep... again.
