Reflection Lake

Sleeping, navigating the darkness, my brain has another opinion,
flinging words off its cerebral tongue, lashing the insides of my skull.

Bolting upright, awake before realizing sleep has ceased,
I stare at my palms, outstretched, as if I hold something.

Inspiration gives me the strength to rise, throwing off quilts,
making eager strides to the desk, a pen, the flashing insistent cursor.

Sitting down, ready to spill forward, I ready the page,
clean catch for my words, but realize I've lost them all.

I stare at my hands in stunned wonder over the loss of it;
was there any wisdom or truth in it, was there any whimsy?

In defeat, I stare down my hands and their inability to make it happen,
surprised to see a shimmering palm pool and my own reflection.

Shaking at the wrists, I fail to upset the image, my reflection remains,
refusing to disappear, settling on the surface of reflection's lake.

My likeness, everything I love and love to hate about myself,
right there in the mirror, on the flat surface of my out-stretched hands.

Reflexively, as if bitten, I clap my hands in an effort to destroy the image;
it could be wrong afterall, perhaps further sleep journeying is in order.

Yet the notion held --Don't let this reflective moment go unnoticed,
do not wake if you are dreaming, or force sleep in fear of this wake.

Come to the edge he said; We are afraid they said. Come to the edge he said; They came. He pushed them; and they flew. --Guillaume Appolinaire