Cherry House Press / July 2019
(Line/Stanza breaks re-edited to correct print anthology errors)
I dreamed of her, an oasis
standing by a new house
on a hill in the greening spring
holding a small glass harp,
its strings singing, untouched,brushed only by a breeze;
its sound, lifted and carried
by the blue air, intoxicating.I woke up before there was light
and stepped outside, tentative,
barefoot, onto the creaking porch,with only coffee and the railing for balance.
Another autumn folded in around me:
the intemperate air almost readyto carry snowflakes; the world, swirling
out of one darkness into another;
the moon on the verge of eclipse.
Then, there she was again.