Last night I dreamt
of the place where we ran
in alleyways
and on wooded paths,
where we captured lightening bugs
and stole grapes from the vine all summer,
where we created chalk masterpieces
on the slate squares of sidewalk in front of our house –
the one with the concrete porch
and green wicker rocking chairs –
dandelions were everywhere,
so yellow and fluffy and soft
and infected,
just like our hearts
playing out the songs of
Herb Alpert
and
Godspell,
as if they told the story
somehow better
than the infected dandelions
painted it…
Then I woke,
and the tears disappeared
into a smile
that remembered only
you.