I'm sharing a den with Lily and Hope
but I'm the only one still hibernating.
Lily and her cub are outside at the moment,
getting some fresh air.
Emerald sunlight bathes them from
the leafy cover, drawing highlights of grey
from the shag of their midnight winter coats,
and dripping golden pools across the forest floor.
On all fours, alert—Lily holds her nose astutely
north, her mini-me beside her faces rear. I feel far
from harm seeing their calm vigilance, safe
in our den from all intrusion, real and imagined.
The real’s been several months now, while my bears
have been with me several years, gracing the Navajo
blanket I hang from nails over my windowed door to
fend off solar glare and bolster my illusion of privacy--
An illusion so vital it rarely granted hopes of social
surprise, yet misses that luxury at the moment.