An Ode to the Pillow

O Hypnos! O Morpheus, her son!

Please do not be vexed

to hear the lauding of such a one

inside this mortal coil, next

to tales you may have spun—

an object in whose seams

lie unconscious dreams and thoughts

woven and sewn in reams,

threads beneath heads caught

between sleep and waking.

Your softness and gentle scent tempts

even the most active of flesh, snaking

supine to your level

to be cocooned in your sweet succor

and then, as a chrysalis, emerge to revel

in the deed. Even when sleep does not come,

you slake the aches and pains

of nerve and bone, temper the drum

of rushing blood to un-pelting rain.

Tell me, pillow, when I am away,

what secrets do you keep?

What inner life do you hold

while covered and cold

and not holding me?