Out Like a Lamb (III)

ISSUE #146

Waking usually comes before my eyes open.
Sleep's threshold to wakefulness isn't crossed in a blink.
Truthfully, it’s more of a dissolve.
Sleep, especially with dreams, is draped in a softer membrane.
Sensation comes back to the body like the billowing of linen curtains.

My skin grows warm.
The duvet tickles.
Sometimes I know the room before I see it.
Sometimes my eyes race ahead of recognition.
I feel the dream float away.

Life's longest dream is winter.
But gentle are the bells of spring—
the sound shakes clumps of dirt from my pelt.
My heart walks down to the tips of my fingers just to hear them ring,
burdens once large as granite boulders now lighter than balls of cotton.

Spring was humanity’s first teacher of hope.
Still, I’m shocked each year I forget.
Millions of winters lie somewhere in my genes,
you’d think I’d learn to count on better days.

Then again, I sometimes lie down to a winter's nap
and try to track the shadows across my rug.
Change is unperceived until light replaces dark.

As the warm weather comes, I lay my Soft Songs out in the sun. May this music brush you with the breeze of hope. There’s a reason Blake paired “The Tyger” with “The Lamb”—balance, balance. Everything is moderation. The hardest part is getting through the night.