Evening Primrose

The dying don't need much sleep/
I don't mean the ones in bed
propped on pillows,
turned side to side
waiting for their final breath.
The ones who traverse the chasm
between two worlds.
I mean walking doomed
who still have choices.

I have always coveted my sleep
and have risen late
pulled from darkness
to the stark and waiting day.

But now in these new weeks
my body unfolds at five:
the mirror surprise of evening primrose.
I ascend easily
visit the still quiet skeleton
of a sleeping house.
Seven hours are fertile enough
to plant the dreams I need.
For now
the magnet force of dawn
holds more delight
than the fathomless deep
where no compass
finds due north.
I balance day and night
on tiptoe.

A Hermit Holds My Heart
Ellen Porter
Benetvision