I want to find the room where my father is sleeping,
take his hand and wake him. I will say I am sorry
to have come so late, after all the other children.
I will ask about his heart and his dreams,
apologize for disturbing his rest. I want to drive there
faster than anybody, but I am not even on the way home.
The masters say all is one but I am five hundred miles away,
studying the alphabet of broken trees
and the gorgeous dusk of the beaver marsh.
The masters say nothing is separate but I am lost
among the lilies, the needly mosquitoes, the slow tenderness
of the fireflies. I will leave tomorrow if need be.
Tonight I will dream of the great healing
and the night will be warm with the hum of fireflies,
the chir and splish of the beavers fitting one more stick,
one more slap of mud into the mile-long dam.