I awoke and realized
the poem I dreamed was a prayer.
Springtime love was my mother
singing as she made my father
a meatloaf sandwich. I
gave her a dandelion blossom
plucked from its stem. The yellow sun
bloomed on for years.
Seasons passed, and falling leaves
called my boys from Big Wheels to
manhood. While braving the cold
to enjoy a sunset, I understood what is true:
Living with hope is a pre-winter dream,
a skyrocket to heaven through a galaxy
of worn-down stars.
In pockets of memory I entertain
queasy shadows, uncertain longings.
Who knows the depths of my pain,
the height of my ecstasy, how I claimed
the damage, rebuilt and reclaimed
that which is mine? Sometimes
misunderstanding veils sweetness,
and so much hinges on the overriding
miracle of finding grace everywhere.