A Dream in Response to Words Hanging in the Night Air

Photo by Mark Basarab

A Poem by Megan Huwa

You’re a dreamer, you say under the glow

of lamplight that umbrellas the bedroom.

These words said to mirror the soul’s cargo,

but I lie, searching ceiling stars, cocooned.

Night plunges to dream: You and me beneath,

swimming the edge of earth’s icy waters.

Dream’s voice ushers us beyond marbled depths,

where one light downcasts refracting mirrors:

Here is the edge of this eternity.

We heed, is this life a memory we wake

unto—where wracked bones face the heavenly 

bodies—or are heaven’s waters the first wake?

At next day’s light, you say, Winter is thawing. 

Wait for the waking tide—spring is coming.

Megan Huwa is a poet and writer in southern California. A rare health condition keeps her and her husband from living near her family’s five-generation farm in Colorado, so her writing reaches for home—both temporal and eternal. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Thimble, Clayjar Review, Solum Literary Press, Calla Press, Ekstasis, and elsewhere, and featured on The Habit Podcast and Vita Poetica Podcast. Find her at meganhuwa.com.