It was one of those dreams of short brown grass,
Like cheap carpet in an entryway to the waiting room of the Ruined Dentist Of Fremont Street.
A tin foil sun shone
Like a child's sheriff badge,
As if we had molasses in our veins, and ill-got trinkets stuffed in our cheeks.
It went on like that for weeks,
Until who we had been,
And what had replaced us,
Diverged so profoundly that as we skittered by, like old traffic tickets wearing preposterous brown shoes,
I looked at you,
Nodded at the shadows,
"To them, we are the ghosts."
No use in mirrors, then.
No sense in trying to start any more fires,
Though we had become, ourselves, rags,
It was only when I found myself alone that grace came.
The path changed,
Became a sea shell road.
There were tree blossoms like cherub faces,
And the weather turned as easily as an old cat in a rocking chair,
From stifling to superb.
Just when I thought I belonged nowhere,
Just when I believed the lying dust I had been living my life upon,
I saw him--
Our uniformed chauffeur, washing the Stutz in the drive under the magnolias.
He tipped his cap,
Said, "Good morning, Miss Anna. It's been a long time."
I'm telling you,
I felt my heart spread out like a rose bush in June--
As loved, for all my blooms and thorns alike.
I fell down beneath my favorite old tree,
In the lush grass,
Not caring about my white dress.
I couldn't stop laughing, fountaining joy,
And I woke up like that,
In happy tears,
photograph by Rob Hanson for One Shoot Sunday