The finer brushstrokes of this world
Don’t make it into my eyes.
I seem to hobble from moment to moment
Like a one-legged stork.
From memories that show up constantly,
My life is drawn and redrawn,
Yet I know that I have lived a life
For which I am once again grateful.
Have you ever found
A fragment from the past
Coming forward,
With something it needs to tell you?
My son came to me in a dream
Only the second time in six years.
He was writing a book, 800 pages he said.
Its title was “Choices”.
And in the dream, I asked him:
Would you like me to have a look?
Perhaps I could help with the language.
He just looked at something behind me.
At least this time I knew enough,
To wish I had been more able
To celebrate his being and his world
Each as full of mystery as the depths of space.