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Sleeping with Lambs


The woman is not mad
but she dreams about snow
piercing the windows of her house,
snow tunneling through the earth
to her cellar, moist flakes
already forming on the sheets
of her bed. Wind surrounds
the house like wolves,
sinewy as tree branches
etched into sleep. Not quite
the dream she expected: four
white heads tucked beside her
as she turns to see them there, neatly
beside her, the blankets folded just
under their chins, the air warm
with the wool of their breathing.
 
© Neile Graham