Dreams in Spring

Dreams in Spring


The eye sees each new growth
Separate from the old,


As if living things are new miracles.
Even with the knowledge of


Decades, longer, there is something
In men forgetful and unforgivable.


As the first greens appear, and thoughts
Turn to years reeling in consciousness,


Lifetimes fisheyed and colored in the
Surreal breath of lapsing days;


It is not enough to only see. To remember
Is to connect these things as they are.


It is to sacrifice the hollow comfort
Of memory, to understand that


The past is a shifting thing, false
And corrupting. Wakeful


Eyes see the new life of spring as
An uncertain upward reaching,


The hope of the dead, their claim
To this world, far beyond our


Modern sight. As stars shine their
Dead light through darkness,


Our momentary flashes are seen
Only in part. Other eyes watch


From more solid ground, dropped
Suddenly and impartially from


Dreamlife. They see us as we are,
Their own cells and life parts


Reborn ever as children in this world,
Never seeing. I would like to think


That they guide us, and perhaps they
Do: Mothers come in dreams,


Walking down a familiar hill, aged
As if the body had never died.


A brother walking in the dusk,
To the window of his dreamlife


Sister, reaching to lay a hand on the back
Wall of the house that once held him.


Perhaps they are saying: Rest your poor
Bodies, for you will no longer need it


Once you are like me.
There is no time anymore, only days.


There is no past anymore, only sight.
Only now, never then.