No Dream of Gardens

I have no dream of gardens,
lush and green,
like the Daintree rainforest
I once knew.
No dream of blue-green water,
diamond-flashing palm tree
black against the sun.
No dream of a place to go
when it’s over
and I’m shut up in a drawer
in a wall of drawers.
No dream of a beatific face, welcoming,
at the far end of a darkened hallway.
No dream of forever, ever after
after life, except
that someone might remember.

Enough

I brought home the sun
from a tropical isle
and laid it on my bed,
smoothing it out to the edges.
It shone bright and warmed the wintry room.
When tropical flowers grew there
and filled the room with scent and color, I thought
it would be enough ‘til Spring.

copyright 1997