Remember Me?


Remember me? I am the abandoned house 
you dream about, the farmhouse whose 
ample porch holds a row of rocking chairs.

Days, I nap by the creek in whose blue eye
my deep reflection shimmers. You have visited
me many nights, even braved my underwater 
rooms where a family of dreamers gathers. 

They, too, know you, have come like you 
in every season to drift from room to room, 
greeting one another in glad recognition.

The wind brings me news of a place called city 
where dwellings live atop one another. Wind says 
dreamers who go there enter cyclones of desire. 
But for you—my fertile fields and peaceful waters.





Where We Are


We are always in the sky. Wherever
we are, the sky is an invisible lodger, 
a tenant taking up no room at all, or 
maybe all there is.

The sky pumps our blood, inflates our 
lungs, and on the horizon, trees breathe.
I think of Juniper, source of Taxol, sky 
chemotherapy that saved my life last year.

Sky gives us everything. The varied 
moods of our atmosphere—cloud and  
clear, calm and storm—pass through us 
as we drift down days and nights.

I was a dream astronaut, hurling through 
the black abyss of space in some tiny 
capsule, stopping to hover over a world in 
the great galaxy of Andromeda. 

This is where you have come from,
a dream-voice said, and I believed,
looking down on a cluster of gelatinous 
dwellings, almost remembering.

All my life I have been trying to go home
again—a child kneeling by a window with
my mother, awestruck by the Aurora— 
forgetting that I am already there.