The bear
by Gail
In the forest the bear sleeps
all winter, the cave shaping
itself to his dreams, ripe berries
crammed into his mouth
and tree after tree filled with honey
stored by drowsing bees.
I wait for sleep against hope,
four years old, trying to melt
like ice cubes in summer
into the mattress, to dream
of big-girl bicycles and cookies.
The night light clicks off.
The bear dreams, gathers in
my small shade to his side.
I am pretending so hard
that I am in the bear's cave
that I feel his coarse fur
on my belly instead of stubble.
We lumber together to the best trees,
where honey, thick and sweet,
fills my mouth, that I swallow gladly.
When the bear and I awake
in the spring, we will roll
like cubs in the soft grass.
