Old hands

 

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.