Dream at the End of Summer

In the dream of another life
you slip beneath my skin
like my husband
late for a train

in a distant land
at dawn.
Your body tucks itself neatly
around the length of my arms

and down the backs of my legs,
the prayer silent light
that eases into the palms of my hands
like the rustle of wooden beads

and the whisper of a name
inside the words of this poem.
I gather you there,
as if you were the last bouquet of summer,

black-centered Susans stare boldly
tracing the curve of my foot
and milkweed cocoons, the springs wound tightly
around silky seeds, with her sister asters

the promise of a brilliant, peppery autumn
in the kitchen of my mind.

Forgive me for awakening
in the patterns sketched inside
the surface of your heart’s chambers,
but I have been called to be your humble servant

and to carry your tired soul
to the end of forever
if only to watch the sun set
in the closing of your eyes.