I thought the dream had died
before I even saw its face
but tonight I find it,
in my sleep, on ice
pick it up, hold it in my arms,
wrapped in a blanket
a girl, I think, fine-featured,
cold and quiet as the moon
at first I don't wonder about the eyes open wide,
the cheeks blushing like ripe peaches
but in the end I'm not sure what I'm cradling:
a gift of hope or the chance to say a last goodbye.
—Kathleen Christensen
