In a dream, two of my daughters sit in a box
frame house the size of a sky lantern. They are going
to bring a plate of purple figs to God, freshly picked
yesterday and cold from the refrigerator. I hold
the bottom steady, waiting for the lit birthday candles
to fuel the paper envelope surrounding them
and the moment of lift-off. I want to be useful.
I want them to succeed. I want them to soar
through the night sky holding hands but unafraid.
I want to watch the marvel of their progress,
a gold thread steadily stitching the blue. There
they go, floating with every good wish in
the wind. I don't mind the cold in these dark
hills, nor the crows full of bluster in the trees.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
