Bed of Dreams
by Odin Roark

Winter cold stirs him.

The mail car passes,
its destination somewhere
beyond the pier.

Last night he thought television sounds came
from his crumbling cottage.

He was sure it was more war news,
so he stole a peek from a safe distance,
only to see boats of the past
raucously riding the crest of the dunes,
like the Normandy Beach assault
his father never made ashore.

He shook his head.

He too was becoming a beach memory,
his boat long at rest,
his shack struggling to hold on,
his future…

A deep breath.

Many days yet to pretend.

Sandpipers play tag with
low tide making way for the high.

Nature’s forecast holds the smell
of anticipation in the air,
fish will be biting.

He has always been okay
with sailing off to anywhere,
never finding that somewhere.

For just living was good.

This morning,
he’ll ride the wings of a seagull,
gaze down upon the desolate life-scape,
the peeling clapboard sidings that once
sheltered his dreams,
the weathered shingles waving hello,
just as they have the past few years.

So many winters he’d survived.

So many seasons had came and gone.

So many mail cars that never stopped
at his door.

His gull friend gives him another
feathered so-long.

With an impish smile,
he curls tighter in his bed of dreams,
knowing spring always follows winter,
the season that nurtures life
forever trusting death’s patience.