Within My Clutch: Under My Pillow

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“My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.
I think that, if I touched the earth,

It would crumble;

It is so sad and beautiful,

So tremulously like a dream.”
(Clown in the Moon by Dylan Thomas, 1929.)

 

Sleep soundly, my friends, and may such a poet whisper sweet prose into your ears. Let the moon exhale softly and quickly warm any chill of tomorrow. The memories of today are but a pillow for tonight, at once plucked by dawn’s quick first peek. The poet takes such cushions with him as he makes your bed for the new day.

     Ah, I crave the coax and adore the verse,  for I clutch my pillow tightly all through the night. I’d like to think I dream in sonnets but the pusses assure me that there is never reason to my rhyme. They also confessed, further, that I am not the comma maven that drives my daytime letters, texts, and correspondence. At best, I offer a heady haiku.
     (Image: “Moon Château” by Daniel Merriam, 2011.)
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