Alone by the tree.
I miss you.
Warm like your hand
Touching my cheek.
Closing my eyes,
I see you.
Warm like my hand
Touching your hair.
I met her in a dream this morning.
We must have been college students.
She had dark hair, I think.
Working on some project or another,
I thanked her for helping me.
And she, leaning at my shoulder,
As I sat at table or desk,
Drew near and our lips touched.
Not a kiss, wet and passionate.
A moment of wondering.
My hand touched her arm.
Then she was gone.
Awakening, I remembered life,
New and fragrant with possibility.
When friendship may have been love.
I wonder what she would think of me now,
after all these years.
Would she remember?
Silly old man.
I only met her this morning,
In a dream.
They were farmers while they lived.
Uncounted sunrises and spring plantings.
Uncounted sunsets and harvests.
Lifetimes now frozen in stone,
Set neatly in silent rows.
Like furrows in a new plowed field
Seed waiting for early summer sun.
She is the quiet one,
Wrapped in a magic world of spring and summer;
Of drifting leaves, golden and damp;
Of winter nights after snowfall.
Sitting on a stump she is framed
In the green of the forest maple,
Singing a summer song that my heart remembers.
She is peaceful.
Gliding softly over mirrored images,
Her voice is like the gurgling of the water beneath the boat.
We talk of the mountain
of the maker
of the woodsmoke hanging motionless over the darkening waters
of the first stars of evening,
and the distant sounds of laughter around the fires.
She is like them.
She is my daughter.
A woman. Full grown.
She is not getting taller.
I look down at her
As we hug goodbye.
Not so far down now.
Closer eye to eye than we once were.
“No,” I say. “I am getting smaller.”
She has noticed that
I am not what I once was.
The years have whittled me down by inches.
Once I was a giant.
Or so I imagined.
But she has found me out.
Seen it with her own eyes.
I am a man.