Saying goodnight to you
has become as routine as toothbrush and light-switch-
pat the dog’s head as I pass,
pull up the covers and rest palm on palm,
a bow across miles and mountains.
Mount St. Helen is waking again,
but my mind wanders further East and a little south,
saltless seas kissing limestone until
the snow pushes everything back,
the gentle lion tamer that it is.
I want to lose myself in that white,
to let the cold seep in until it numbs me.
Routines frighten me a little—
such fragile things, really,
little stories we tell ourselves
so we can fall asleep at last.