The White Door
I made an offering and left the shore.
There was nothing to fear.
I was past trouble. I had paid the price.
What could be broken had been broken.
The dreaded losses all had been misplaced.
Armloads of wild flowers cover something dead.
Everyone sees visions.
You must go away and then come back.
We struggle uphill, bags heavy.
I only brought enough for a short stay.
My skin was wrinkled and my hair was white.
No one admits to it.
Behind the white door
The queen lies in her solitary bed.
Curtains open to reveal the dawn.
White Green Red Tree Stone Sun
Tall in his white suit,
my son is looking up at something green
as I look up at him.
Sun on the rocks, the sea.
A woman is basking there, no longer young;
maybe she is me.
Tall tree carved like a woman
locked in bark. Daphne?
Green grass. Sun on the sea.
In his white suit, my son.
A face looks out for recognition:
maybe it is me.
Mesa in whose red folds a shape
is pressed, a woman no
longer young and struggling in stone.
A face looks out for recognition.
Where the road curved and wound off into cloud
the vision passed – a green
gleam, mirage, oasis pink with sunset.
Grey cranes at sunset gathering and calling.
A tree carved like a woman:
a mesa with a woman in its folds
looking out for recognition.
In his white suit, my son looks down at me.
