I dreamed of her, an oasis
standing by a new house
on a hill in the greening spring
holding a small glass harp,
its strings singing, untouched,
brushed only by a breeze;
its sound, lifted and carried
by the blue air, intoxicating.
I woke up before there was light
and stepped outside, tentative,
barefoot, onto the creaking porch,
with only coffee and the railing for balance.
Another autumn folded in around me:
the intemperate air almost ready
to carry snowflakes; the world, swirling
out of one darkness into another;
the moon on the verge of eclipse.