I treasured that tiny dormer room.
When I opened the window, my hair blew into the night
and across the yard above the howls of beagles
as the moon splintered, the wind creaked.
Insects spoke to me, birds knew my dreams.
Beneath a wool blanket my flashlight shone,
lantern by which I read through the night, hungry
for stories. There was no broken glass,
no tanks and coffins, no boys going off to war.
I loved being snug in that room, while outside
wild onions grew among prickly fir trees, briar roses.
The rumbling of trucks from the interstate echoed.
Cooing doves, everyday birds made their
daily music on the patio rinsed with rain.
Nothing sparkled yet nothing was dim
there in the tangled paradise, my own.
Not yet a death. Not yet a funeral.
Where daffodils rose up like lions.
