Joy Harjo

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

Sleep


On the ridge above Skelp Road   
bears binge on blackberries and apples,   
even grapes, knocking down   
the Petersens’ arbor to satisfy the sweet   
hunger that consumes them.  Just like us   
they know the day must come when   
the heart slows, when to take one   
more step would mean the end of things   
as they should be.  Sleep is a drug;   
dreams its succor.  How better to drift   
toward another world but with leaves   
falling, their warmth draping us,   
our stomachs full and fat with summer?

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