~for Jennifer, who appeared to me in a dream


On my way to prayer

I stopped to honor a tree.

It toppled at my touch.


After I had set it right,

paintings sprouted everywhere–

feasts and flowers, long-gone friends.


All the streets were colored

and lined up the way I remembered

in New Mexico, or possibly Illinois.


I stopped at a diner to eat.

The poet who sat down beside me

showed me a notebook. She wrote:


Transitions. Before and after.

This is all metaphor 

for the thing that goes between.

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