Out of nowhere we found ourselves
stretched out under the sun on the summer lawn –
and I saw how lively, how supple, he was
in each new pose, as I breathed in, yes,
and out, yes, and when we sat down to eat
I heard every word he spoke, yes, as if
he knew I would always understand.
And I asked for soup that was green and wild,
and he wanted to taste it, and I said yes again –
and on the mountains we slid so smoothly
through snow drifts, down icy-steep ravines,
on our two simple, matter-of fact feet, yes.
And one day when I wandered off alone
the wolf who followed us did not attack,
but went his solitary way, so I felt safe, yes.
And when we lay down together, at last,
I was amazed how much care he gave
to my humble, forgotten ears and cosmic toes,
and when he kissed me, I slipped like lightning
into another world, yes and yes and yes.
This all happened when he was young and I was old,
and I was young and he was old,
and it still happens whenever a dream arrives at night
to assure me it was all meant to be.
But now I wonder, is my dream more alive
than the poem I write about the dream?
And is my life as alive, as real, as the poem or the dream?
Yes, and yes, and yes.