What is beneath me on this
unmoveable night is years of
deer and elk and moose
trampling, bedding and being.
And I know now the satisfaction of my
pillow of fern my blanket of birch
my comforter of stars.
I’m allergic to feathers and polyester
but not to ferns.
Hay fever season hits hard
but not like the shock of never having slept
until I slept in
Cradled by the sounds of
scurrying animals, startled awake by falling branches.
I dream of the smoke and crackle of fire what warms one
side of my body and makes desire of the other.
The smoke sears my nostrils and makes me more
a man today and more a woman tomorrow.
© S.I. Shaw
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