I dream I no longer keep
presents for use at a better time.
When the tree bows low
with persimmons, I eat
and am grateful.
When the fig yields sweet
purple fruit, I pick
and am overcome
with their unashamed
tenderness. I no longer feel
sorry for rooms with too many
unread books, the silence
of needles with no mending,
dry buds of tea
waiting to blossom
in the perfect cup of hot water.
The river flecks with foam,
and the sun wears the halo
of centuries. I take
a book in my hand and slide
it under my pillow where it will open
to dream after dream after dream.