 |
She walks coatless toward me
in the pale landscape of a dream
across a stubbled field
windswept with snow.
I have come to teach you
to live in imagination,
she says. This way.
You have struggled long enough.
Is she not cold, I ask,
and how will we begin?
Never again, she says,
and I follow her
through the treeline
and over the hill.
When I look back,
I can see my house
close to the horizon.
Smoke rises from the chimney.
The fire is still alive.
 |
| As if it were real |
—after and with the ultimate line from Louise Glück's "Song."
