November dream, Bearsville 2017

The crow,
its call a silver
knife,
laughed, and broke
the morning’s
curved blue air.
A squirrel, in luxurious November
fur,
chittered,
scolding, nervous,
insistent, holding firm,
soft,
close to my right hand,
sitting
in a Japanese maple tree.

That night,
I’d dreamed I stood
unshod,
on Bunny Knoll, the neighbor’s
flowering trees reaching
over the fence,
dripping,
bower-like,
with Rousseau colors, smells and
heavy leaves,
to shield my voids.
Where twigs had fallen,
my feet hurt.
Otherwise, the lawn was
cool and soft.
My heart felt childish,
and I felt whole, and at liberty
to do what will and mood
allowed.
I called to no one,
“Here I am!” No one heard.
I’d called the sky,
and you,
to let you know
I’m here and whole,
and like a child,
happy, happy.

This was two nights before
USA Election Night 2017.
I took it to mean I would
be growing younger.
Now I think it meant
we’ll all get well.

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