Grace

Jan dreams of her teacher, the Vidyadhara.
“I’m REALLY there.” He says when she is awake.
I remember my own dreams of him…like old trinkets on a shelf, dusty
he was really there then too – remember?
but I have forgotten.
For a long time I forget, and when I remember, it’s because
a voice in a box some distance
from these ear buds recalls it
2 years ago–just airing.
Timing.

The days are taken
with our forgetting.
Once and a while we have an inkling that
grace is within our reach.

Released from the silver snake into the cold air, enjoyably.
A faint whiff of cut grass and tempered car exhaust.
Hill from station to home climbs in a steady march. The walker
moves along circles of sodium light on twisting streets.

All this effort to find connections between these various things,
To unlock longing.
Wright does it best, but few read, or listen.
Piles of leaves greet
by the door.
They attract snakes, which become
the dreams in our fitful commuter naps.
It’s dark when we get home. Don’t forget,
the neighbor is coming to pick up her mail.