It is only a dream of the grass blowing
East against the source of the sun
In an hour before the sun’s going down
If we had permission to return,
where would we go, when five o’clock
comes round in winter and the sun
is just a smear of shimmering pastel
exactly where the mountains
touch the sky? Would we abandon
all the rust-and-umber shadows
covering the grass for nighttime,
and the sailboats turning back
to shore? Would we exchange
our soft and fading colors
for a long-ago fiord
in foreign blues and greens?
or for white-water fountains
built for tsars
or for the orange, red, and purple
leaves of liquidambar
on the day we met?
How would we find again
the future that we are,
the path that takes us home?