If I lay dreaming day-through, and
listening to my life,
the sky,
the tirril-tirril of the un-seen flier,
the skitter-scratch of squirrels, and
insect-clicks - invisibly digesting the trees,
the car-swish, and
distant thunder grumble...
If I lay sweating out the hours
in my son's tree fort
(house, he says)
refusing to descend
until growling Thor dispatches
down a white-hot bolt
a muse...
If I lay like this, dreaming day-through,
could I crawl down the years
in three-hundred-and-sixty-five poetic increments,
tossed off, one-by-one,
as days count down to none?
And would I,
when all was writ and done,
have lived?
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