the healing muse

Volume 13, 2013

Depth Perception

Laura Glenn

Last year,
walking this path,
wind blew through a pine tree—
for an instant I saw the ghost of the tree
made entirely of pollen, and shaped like a pine,
float through the air.

Something about this evening light:
distant streetlights cast long reflections
across the lake—shrouded, amber-tinted,
and shaped like upright bodies
bandaged by the light
like mummies,
though I also think: Ganges.

“It’s the dead,” I say
and start to cry.
“Father,” I whisper.
I start to connect
to one of the reflections
—they’re like cocoons—
as if something might emerge,
and my father and I might continue
things said and left unsaid,
heard and not heard.

Down the lake
of time, the reflections appear
in sequence—staggered—and stagnant
for the moment, like the gone.

My father loved travel—
India, Egypt, everywhere.
Where are you going now,
brave voyager?

As solid looking as the lamp lights’ reflections,
reflections of car lights
move fast,
as if there’s no one here
they need to stop and see.

I head home on my walk,
treading soft needles to humus.
My father, with his gift
for making something
of life, now is light on water: illumined;

swaddled, like a mummy,
about to start a new life . . .
and some part of me can’t stop entertaining
thoughts I don’t believe in.

Back to Volume 13, Table of Contents

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