Bright Winter Morning
I watch airplanes land
and fly from a hidden field.
They are silver birds that dive
and sweep bare silver trees.
Part of me flies there,
a bright dream in blue air.

But I find all dreams age silver.

South of here flies a dream
flag above a red land. Its blue
field, silver tree and crescent
moon deep under night sky
are a dream standard. In light
the land’s a swamp of scrub and clay
that’s no dream in Carolina.

Now I think of you . . .

At a great distance I dream you
silver. My thought, a bright star
or comet in a forest of dark trees,
smiles and brightens
before your eyes.
The same sounds and
letters again. Again

I change each to every,
cross out nouns and names

as if the thing’s revealed by symbols
not itself;

as if clothes make the man
a vest too tight for breathing;

as if your portrait wears
a stranger’s face and Nothing

could change.