I still kick myself
for not lifting my tired limbs
to reach out for a pen and paper
to scratch out the poem
that was swirling around
in my head as I lay
down for that decadent
afternoon nap.

Instead, I drifted off
to a lovely, fuzzy place
and as I did,
I continued to savor
the beginnings of a poem
about what, I don’t know.

Sleepily, I kept adding lines
like counting sheep …
forgetting them almost
as soon as I bore them out.

All gone now …
lost in the hour long
restful haze.