I’m doing a little straightening up and find this in an old notebook.
(I tidy it up a bit instead of the room.) —Nils
Time No Longer Marches
Small Morning Poem
Sweet to lie in bed
with a notebook of good paper
and a pen which writes without
skip or complaint.
A new small dog lies
like a gray puddle by my side,
its fur that of a Persian lamb coat
worn by a 1950’s starlet on the cover
of Life magazine.
The old dog, sleeping more each day,
flops on a rug before a glass door
through which the sun makes
an easy morning entrance.
Day ahead filled with too much,
but now I lie among a clutch
of poems watching the pen make its way
to the bottom of the page.
At the end of the notebook, this is what I find:
My small dog Willa, when told she was being freed
to run in the stars with Orion said she’ll rather
hang about the hearth with Hestia.
by Nils Peterson
—in a time before this
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