May we have those dreams. Where, down a street laced with fallen flowers, we walk into the paths of childhood friends. Where, turning to look back, our mother, from the window, lifts a hand to wave us goodbye into morning. Where, on a shaded porch, a love awaits, a wine glass in one hand, sixty years in the other. I can see your face at 80, touched and lined with love, you, well worn in. Your silvered hair catching and cling the light like wet. And your arms, and those shoulders, my chin knows the grooves to go. This is a moment of sure and of knowing. You and I will be there. I hold your back, and your hands warm, the nails flat, knuckles dry. My cup is full and glowing.
May we have those dreams. Joy pours out as tears. Like all the unhappy split open, let truth spill and flow. And fall, and cling the grass, and cling our toes. In clear, wet beads. Like even dew.
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