At the delicious edge of sleep —
the doors of dream enticingly ajar
(or maybe they are more like pools
or limbs exploring towards infinity)

From that alluring edge
I’m reeled back in —
your voice, or at another time
your finger tapping —
engendering my dull reluctant rise
through layers swiftly shredding
back to here

And so my softest thing to do
is laugh —
it shimmers with releasing ripples,
keeps my thought from coalescing solid,
allows my sleepy drift
back toward the edge …

©Wendy Mulhern
December 26, 2019