by Susan Hunter

In my dream, ticking like a metronome,
I climb the hill to your stone,
straight and new, like a soldier with
no more stories to tell.
Rain pelts the windswept landscape
And I bring a yellow rose and wipe away tears.

Someday, when they get around to it,
they’ll inscribe your name
to the roster of spirits
that rise and fall on this hillside.

Someday, a pony-tailed girl
will work on a grave rubbing
and hang it on her wall.

I think how you guided me around your city
before we shared the wine,
and you spoke fluent Spanish to the waiter.

In my dream, you and I sit at either end
of a long, candlelit table.
If memory serves me, you handed me a flower
on a dusky summer evening.

Now, I must hurry away.
The clouds are filling and spitting
on the cold lake water.
One sweep over the stone,
and I’m gone to find my own slumber.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

Copyright by Dallas Poets Community. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.