A Winter Beared
In the winter of dreaming bears, the night mare
barely dared enter
the forest,
for even the poorest ursine unconscious
would have none of her clip-clop.
What could she trot out?
When the bear dreamed of rot,
its snout twitched at riches;
when its sleep faced fear,
its fur flared, small coronas of dust
haloing its humifying aroma;
hibernation already borders
death, even if it’s the neighbor
whose grass is always greener, even this old
snow-weaned grass, bleached brown gold.
Still, the mare, though wary
of the dozing bear, nosed, post dusk,
its spun aura of steam, dust, musk,
as if she might inhale such dreams–
as if she might inhale–
as if she too
might awaken
come Spring.
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12th poem for this April; this one for Magaly Guerrero’s prompt on Real Toads to use three of one’s own titles. I’ve used the winter of dreaming bears, night mare and post dusk.
The picture is a painting by Jason Martin, reposted here.
ps corrected since first posting to correctly spell “humifying” which is the process of turning organic material into humus–that rich black soil, essentially.
ManicDDaily 
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