I am dreaming of houses again.

Last night another maze of rooms led me to

each of you occupying lives shining, meticulous or

in stages of brave disarray, voices streaming

with passion in opalescent air:

you quivered with life, it’s many purposes.

I was like a ghost or an essence of motherhood

that oversees but is unseen slipping about,

with tender sighs and wide open eyes,

with hands and spirit readied.

It was not a sad dream

but dream houses are never

what is expected or imagined,

ceilings unfinished with endless floors above,

doors opened to odd places I still must wander

(if there are doors, at all),

and then sometimes a stranger

takes ownership or tells me:

It was never empty and not for sale.

I have searched (more than I care to think)

for a house that can attend well to us all,

one that is made of peace and old wood,

surprising, fecund gardens and music,

forgiveness and effervescence,

and windows that open to everything,

even aquamarine drape of sky.

But now you have your own homes.

I have mine. And it is some days not tall,

or deep or wide enough to fully wrap around

this festival of family with its lightning strikes of loss,

pulling closer then separating, each needing

respite from the blood deep sweetness and

searing pain of love that does not end.

But we call out and answer with a chorus

of true voices, as before, never mind the house.

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