(After Mary Oliver)

When I lived in the city
I dreamed I was made of bricks.
When I lived by a small round pond,
my dreams were made of crows' feet
leaving prints in the mud—I was the black locust,
my root a robust artery,
my face a spray of blossoms
brimming with satisfied bees.
Then I was walking the river's bank—
I knew the rough currents,
I knew the wreck of driftwood.
I knew the harlequin, small sea-tossed duck,
white stripes, slate body, an eye for danger.
I dreamt the white of water,
I became a bead of foam on the duck's gloss.
It's inescapable, and I don't want to escape—
this buoyancy, the letting go, feet unleashed,
the remedy for gravity and shape.
Now I am here. Later I will be there—
I will be the moonlight threading darkness,
stitching the night open with stars.