Even as My Empty Hand Reaches
my head heavy
on my pillow
consciousness in a slide
from wakefulness
to sleep
i notice my mind
composing lines
of poetry
lush phrases
intricate cadences
meaning-dense metaphors
that—
in the dark
of night
in the presence
of gravity’s pull on my body
in the absence
of paper and pencil at hand—
evaporate
into a breathing
micro-mist
create a biome
for deep deep
dreams
i wonder
will the dreams
reach a dewpoint
in the light
of some bright
morning
and recondense
into poems?
—dotty seiter
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Notes about poem and art:
• If today’s poem had a hypnagogic origin, I have no recollection!
• All the Honey is the second of Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer’s poetry collections I’ve purchased. I got one copy for myself and one to give. I then needed, and so painted, a bookmark for each.
dottyseiter: now playing 
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