Awake with a jolt at 3 a.m.
Thunderous roar of the dream in my ear,
A flat wall of black defeats my eye,
On my tongue the poison taste of fear.
Then a soft sigh from a bulwark made flesh,
He still sleeps, yet senses my distress.
A wandering hand blindly smooths my hair,
The other cups a breast,
He spoons my back,
Protects me with his bulk,
Wraps me in his slumber,
Until we share the rhythm of his sleep.
Paula Lyons, MD
3/23/2005