Rip Van Winkle

The illustrations always portray him outdoors,

sleeping at the base of a generous oak,

acorns bouncing off his elfin cap,

the beard grown over him like a blanket.

Here reclines the patron saint of sleep,

He has sawed enough logs to heat the Land of Nod.

His dreams are longer than all of Homer.

And the Z above his head looks anchored in the air.

You would think a forest animal would trouble

his slumber, the paw of a bear on his paunch,

but squirrels hop over his benign figure

and by now the birds are unafraid of his rhythmic snoring.

In the next valley the world probably goes on,

hammering and yelling and staying up late at night

while around his head flowers open and close

and leaves or snow fall as he sleeps through the seasons.

Some mornings, awakened by the opera of dawn,

I think of his recumbrance, his serene repose

as I open my eyes after a paltry eight hours,

pointlessly alert, gaudy with consciousness.