my head on someone's leg while he
(or she, as the case may be) read
poems aloud in the sun, ebb and flow
of breath and syntax putting me
to sleep relaxed, perchance to dream.
I'd nap until the orb of sunlight (that's
a word we poets sometimes use) had
dipped to shade, slightest chill of breeze
awak'ning me to find my reader
dozed as well, and I would lie there,
silent, still, composing poetry in
my mind, hoping I'd remember,
wishing I had brought a pen and paper
here beside the sea.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014
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