Tan Oak Road
I took the path down Tan
Oak Road, the one I'd often
glimpse in my dreams my
great grandmother had
imagined and painted when
she was fourteen. This time
it was inviting me down its
endless curving path, the last
of autumn patches of red gold
less visible as I made my way
below the pale sky, the mild
air soft on my skin but not
cold. No deer, no rabbit, on
a road seldom taken, me
eager to see where it will
lead; and when it felt as if
I'd walked a long time I saw
a single finger of light glaze
the surface of a silver lake
with camellias on the water,
and I swam in up to my
neck, not knowing if they
were an illusion or the real
thing; and when I came
close enough to touch them,
I woke up in bed with snowy
feathers on my pillow as if
an angel had left them.
she was fourteen. This time
it was inviting me down its
endless curving path, the last
of autumn patches of red gold
less visible as I made my way
below the pale sky, the mild
air soft on my skin but not
cold. No deer, no rabbit, on
a road seldom taken, me
eager to see where it will
lead; and when it felt as if
I'd walked a long time I saw
a single finger of light glaze
the surface of a silver lake
with camellias on the water,
and I swam in up to my
neck, not knowing if they
were an illusion or the real
thing; and when I came
close enough to touch them,
I woke up in bed with snowy
feathers on my pillow as if
an angel had left them.
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