A Scene in Passing

I was dreaming of being old
while

you were a constant age
beside me.
In this dream the country changed,
with clicks and flutters
from spring to summer, fall to winter,
and back again,
while I sat stunned breathing months away.

The leaf fell on my hand
rotted into dust
when I bent to look at it.
Where it blew through an open window,
I thought I felt a quick chill
and a snowflake,
but my hand was dry.

Night and day were strobed to my sight--
it was either always day with a flash of dark
or night with a flash of light.

I was dreaming of being old.

The sound of the years passing
was a mad music,
only the slow expansion
and contraction of the house
I was in
and the forming, then the falling
of the ice on the windows
was identifiable.
otherwise the sound was as gray as my hair.
As the pace slowed
I was dreaming of being old
and could not pull myself awake.

copyright 2005 Michael Gullickson
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