a small but significant victory
Feverish fingers held lightly
as sleep ambushes
your damp pinkness.
I make vows to myself
to grab tomorrow and throttle words from it
(to do this every day for a month)
To feed the part of me
that devotes itself to your easy laughter.
Lost to illness for now.
I compose a small, short victory
of twelve lines
as you sleep and twirl and sleep again.
Sarah L Dixon