FOR CINDAI dreamed I was an angel
standing in a tree ...
No dime store tinsel doll
but heavy-winged, laden
I stretched and turned, rustling leaves.
Then drifted slowly down,
damp feathers curved
towards once familiar ground.
Weary now, my shoulders ache
with weight of heavy wings
(and heavier burden of
for grounded cousin beings).
The vivid world creeps in ...
A sense of air, the distant sound of bees.
I turn my head
and there: catch
scent of rich sweet peas.
My knees buckle - human joy,
unimpinged by flight,
rushes fully in.
Unsettled, my spirit passes through
a place of dark and light.
The garden turtle cranes one eye
over the tiny pond.
His wrinkled neck a stem,
leathery head a bud
nodding like a frond.
The water's skin, silken as the
covering of an eye,
shivers as a peony petal drifts;
like a soundless sigh ...
Goldfish lips, puckered like a child's,
unfearing and unfeared,
rise to touch the petal.
Turtle head quick as an oiled wink:
blossom at his chin a crimson beard.
The sound startles me -
And all of the garden, every leaf.
How long since I've spoken?
Or wept? Or felt unbounded belief?
The hot whisper of unbidden tears ...
Or am I, am I dreaming?
Can honeysuckle sweet be dreamed,
or hollow-bone weariness
or the living sense of seeming?
I dreamed, I dreamed ...
I dreamed I was an angel, standing in a tree.
And every time that Cinda passed
she shared a bit
Copyright 2000 Ann Parker