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.