Dream, With Rowboats and Stone Fruit

I dream of rowboats dry-docked 
in my garden, their oars clipped

like wings at their sides.
In the afternoons, where

chrysanthemums and clover grew,
how the quiet begins to thicken

as the light drops. Did we really
row all this way, and are we here

now after so many years? An owl
visits the same tree each night: why

doesn't it seem to have aged? What will
I do when the wood withers and night-

calls of birds rise above the wells
of human speech, when the plums

that were green can't hold their stones
anymore and just deepen into sweetness?

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