|Oct/Nov 2015 Poetry|
Image courtesy of NASA and the University of Arizona
You were in my dreams again last night.
I was back in Oregon, sitting with the kids
on the side of a rural road. They were drawing
the red barn, and I was looking
for chickens and wheelbarrows.
My mother appeared and scolded me
for not joining in with the art project.
I said, mom, the kids are having a fine time;
please just let me sit here
and finish this poem.
She shook her head,
and I could hear her thinking,
they'll be grown before you know it,
Michael, it all happens so fast.
It was right then that your text buzzed
in my pocket. I didn't open it, though,
which was probably a good thing,
because when I woke,
I found my mother had been right:
the chickens and wheelbarrows
were right where I'd left them,
and the kids were already grown.