She sleeps, she coos

A new poem by Leon Wing

Under netted pyramid she
Dies in sleep. The book,
Dead, forgotten in slumber,
Remembered in dreams, has
fallen from her hands.
The Nile drifts her lightly
Away, her head on feathered pillows.
Her eyes behind lids
Move, attending but not seeing.
A small scream nuzzles through
The goose downs of her sleep
Into her head. She hears
The wake of the cry
Melding into a litter of whistling
Breaths. The mother’s cooing
Soothes the new births into mews.

4 comments:

  1. Marita Paige says

    Hello Leon, I like how you talk about books and writing. I thought I'd let you know that I'm adding you to my links, under Bookishness, along with Sharon. Take the link from my blogspot to my current blog.


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