POEM A DAY – June 8 – VANESSA SHIELDS

Monday Morning Dream

The puppy lays on my chest, his paws on each side of my neck like trees, his fur forests my throat and I feel safe to fall back asleep and dream. The sun rises, pouring hot strands of light on our slumbering faces. My eyelids, like frosted-glass doors, turn my dreamscape red. There’s a large yard. Wild animals dart through tall grass and mounds of mud. A half-built pool pusses in the centre. I avoid a porcupine. On the street, a small child coils under a dirty winter coat. I crouch down. He awakens. There is more dirt on his face than life. He tells me he’s homeless. His mother is coming. She arrives, thin, matted. A second child grips her bony hand. I offer them my home, the shower, food. I say, don’t go in the yard, there are wild animals there, a broken pool. They don’t hear me. The children squeal, delighted.

below northern lake ice
whitefish forage, unstoppable