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 descentaround the sink and through the plug-hole.Or, azure-throated, you're perched by the glasswhere your teeth once swamor, finger in thimble, floating over the fence-post.
I have grown accustomedto 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 aroundnow you are dead.For the hedgerow and the dreamare 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 tanageras you flit from branch to branch.
Did you know that there's a lizard in the rockswho waits for you to show?And a mote of dust on the bedpostthat does the same?An owl hoots for your appearances.And the willows, at dusk, bend their headsand pray for your return.
No wonder, you're the guestof 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 routinesas darting as a dragonflyor slow up, wrap limbs around each otheruntil you resemble this squashed-up pagethat I am currently unfolding.