~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.