I still dream. Of hills of trees. Of banyan mists
and sandstorm suns. Coffeepot clouds thread the day
into its hours one by one. It persists
in see-through layers of chiffon seaspray
wetting my toes. I still dream of tender wrists
from long ago resting on past laps, halfway
between memory, fiction, forgotten myths.
Yes, still dream but can’t recall all the details
except that they were beaded with love, carefree
laidback. They didn’t ask much. They left contrails
of laughter in curtained rooms. They let me be,
weave in and out as I wished, fall and fail
no big deal. They turned pages of poetry.
Picked me up time after time, though old and frail.