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"Lately I've been having vivid dreams,"
You said. "Perhaps it is the drugs, or perhaps
The tumor presses hard against my brain.
In any case, I've seen some lovely things,
Things I have not thought of many years,
Come back now with such yearning, such delight,
That I could weep for joy to be alive.
I dreamed we were at Grandma Rifka's house,
Your father, I, and Rifka in the dark,
Silent for the things we could not say.
The moon invaded, and cold beams like ice
Came in among us, crystallized the air,
And like cold spokes transfixed us where we were.
We could not move nor speak, though within me
There feebly stirred a wish to set things right.
The frozen air held us, ice like stars.
Then you came in, waved hello, smiled,
A large guitar slung over your left shoulder,
On your right a child just emerged from sleep,
And I was happy. The air grew warm,
Light came from you and danced among the stars.
The moonbeams melted, once again we talked,
We said the little things that cover darkness,
You laughed and life flowed in us once again.
In a moment I was weeping, you asked why.
I said I didn't know. Was it relief?
No, it was the beauty of the moment
As it poured burning, dying through my heart."
All poems: copyright by
Nicholas Gordon
Free scrapbook poems
permission to use
provided by the author. |
