I dreamt last night
that I sat on pavement, cracked,
a lonely old road deep in the heart
of green fields, marigolds.
I sat motionless, my palms engulfing
the warmth of the asphalt, chest slowly, penitently
heaving, shallow breath.
I know this dream, have had it before. Someone far away
I am missing, and only in dreams can I listen
to my heart’s signaled palpitations, a cipher easily broken.
I wake on a Sunday morning and the light floods my bedroom walls,
as white as blindness. I hesitate to open my eyes, if perchance my dreams would die
along with the darkness of my shuttered eyelids. I linger in bed, hear the birds chirping, the dogs being walked, the blinds jangling in the weak morning wind. I survey the scaffolds of the day and have nothing more to say.
All these roads I have traveled, all this understanding I have sought
when all I want is to speak with you again, if only in thought.
