Unfolding an Old Letter

by John Grey

That's you with the souvenirs aligned along the mantelpiece.
You even wake one morning in the rose garden,
invisible and distinctly blue, untangling yourself, a rare picture.
And you're with the water on its swirling descent
around the sink and through the plug-hole.
Or, azure-throated, you're perched by the glass
where your teeth once swam
or, finger in thimble, floating over the fence-post.
I have grown accustomed
to you suddenly materializing on the steps to the attic,
or rising from the evening fire.
Sometimes, no matter where I turn,
you're coming into sight.
You tell me it's so much easier to get around
now you are dead.
For the hedgerow and the dream
are no different for you.
You can rustle either one.
And that's you frozen on the window pane.
Or fluttering like a feather.
Or playing the part of tanager
as you flit from branch to branch.
Did you know that there's a lizard in the rocks
who waits for you to show?
And a mote of dust on the bedpost
that does the same?
An owl hoots for your appearances.
And the willows, at dusk, bend their heads
and pray for your return.
No wonder, you're the guest
of so many reunions.
Could be over a game of solitaire.
Or a walk down by the gray lake at dawn.
Sometimes you're crimson.
Other times slate-colored.
And you can go through your routines
as darting as a dragonfly
or slow up, wrap limbs around each other
until you resemble this squashed-up page
that I am currently unfolding.