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?