18 February 2018

I waken
rowing, mid-dream,
so real my dream
I am astonished
my bed is not a river,
my arms not oars.

I grasp hold
the sheet of air.
I fall back on my pillow,
in the in-between
of dream and waking.

I had fallen asleep reciting
the syllable Om,
its sound the silent hum
at the center of the universe.
I had, or so I felt,
attained the sweet Oneness,
the point when all fractions
are sucked into wholeness.

I slept, again.  The next thing
I knew I was
rowing from sleep to waking,
until realization divided me
from the center of myself.

Philip Kuepper
(15 February 2018)