A Dream of Grass
Blowing East
by Joyce Schmid
It is only a dream of the grass
blowing
East against the source of the sun
In an hour before the sun’s going
down
Robert Duncan
If
we had permission to return,
where
would we go, when five o’clock
comes
round in winter and the sun
is
just a smear of shimmering pastel
exactly
where the mountains
touch
the sky? Would we abandon
all
the rust-and-umber shadows
covering
the grass for nighttime,
and
the sailboats turning back
to
shore? Would we exchange
our
soft and fading colors
for
a long-ago fiord
in
foreign blues and greens?
or
for white-water fountains
built
for tsars
or
for the orange, red, and purple
leaves
of liquidambar
on
the day we met?
How
would we find again
the
future that we are,
the
path that takes us home?
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