It’s the season of wishes and I’m a dilettante,
Dreaming about lions. They paced about
My brain all night: A way out of time?
A forgotten injury I must remember?
When they awoke me, it was still dark,
But I sat with the lamp and watched its light
Faded into the Sun. . .Still, the lions walk
While I consider their meaning—waiting. . .
For an inconsistency, or a slip, when
They will gather, pounce, and grant wisdom.
