Poem By Herbert Nehrlich
The dampness woke him.
He stretched into a furry thing
which could not be made out
here in the darkness of the cave.
Went back to sleep on pointed rocks,
with bats a-coming and a-going,
and dreams of her, at home in bed
she was no hunter, after all, no way.
Her hair so soft, coarse curls aplenty,
he scratched and stroked with care.
It was a miracle that hibernation
was on the mind of that brown bear.