Meadows in Vermont

for Angela  
 
The dream was the same for years:  an auburn sun  
staining the goldenrod as you twirled away summer  
with the windchime of your laughter.  The birds  
were shot arrows under the cobalt dome of sky,  
their bright and busy bodies plump with gifts.  
 
Your downy legs pumped through the tall  
grasses, and your dress floated with movement,  
in a flurry of dandelion puffs.  It was safe,  
and it was warm.  You were glad, and you grew.  
You were glad.  You were safe.  I held onto this.  
 
It was nothing, but it was everything.  It was  
all I had.  Distance, karma, circumstance;  
I could lay blame anywhere, but the stone  
of guilt is mine to carry.  Now all I want,  
all I ever wanted, is to journey back  
 
to those wild-flowered meadows, to pick  
bouquets of devotion and remorse, to go  
where you are, where I left you.  Though  
the landscape twists through the kaleidoscope  
of seasons, though the miles are longer than ever,  
 
providence as fickle and deaf as always, know  
that wide, green pastures are calling to me, that  
I lie awake, nightly sending wishes to the mantle  
of heavenly bodies, thinking of you, daughter,  
and yes, the little one:  your happy girl.  
 
Tell her that sometimes, when the blithe moon  
hangs its radiant lantern over the fields, when  
she clambers out of bed, sleepy-headed, to look  
in wonder, that I am looking at the same moon,  
that I am looking for her, and for you, still.
 
 
 
*Note: This poem also appears in Blue Lake Review 7/11:
http://bluelakereview.weebly.com/meadows-in-vermont.html