Crossing
Late the night my grandmother died, I dreamed
I walked beneath a pillowed sky alone
through wheat fields quilted white, the fences seams.
I headed for the woods instead of home.
The cold, the light, the late November snow
made ground and sky so bright they hurt my eyes.
Or was it something lost, I didn’t know,
but in the dream I cried, or tried to cry.
I knew I’d never make it to the woods –
I had to catch a boat back to a feast.
Many strangers. Tables laden with food.
I leaned from door to door but didn’t eat.
When I awoke, her absence was a wound
that grew inside my chest, and filled the room.
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