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Dreams draw near at dawn and then recede even if you beckon them. They loom like demons you tug by the tail to examine from up close and then let fly away. Their colors at once brighter and less bright than you remembered, they hover and insinuate all day at the corner of your eye.
Copyright © 2010 by Rachel Hadas. Used with permission of the author.
When my son was a few weeks old,
replicas of his yawning face appeared
suddenly on drowsy passersby:
middle-aged man’s gape that split his beard,
old woman on a bus, a little girl—
all told a story that I recognized.
Now he is fifteen.
As my students shuffle in the door
of the classroom, any of the boys
could easily be him—
foot-dragging, also swaggering a little,
braving the perils of a public space
by moving in a wary little troop.
But the same sleepy eyes, the same soft face.
So far the nights feel lonelier than the days. In light, the living keep me company, and memories of voices through the years. Each summer threads a green familiar maze. Emerging sun-struck, you can barely spy the slow kaleidoscope of clouds and hours. Those flannel nightshirts chilly sleepers wear as summer wanes: I'm giving them away. Pass it on: you keep at the same time. A bough has broken from the Duchess tree. Rain swelled the apples.