Mystic Visit
Bruce McEver

I stayed with old friends in Mystic
at the time blossoms litter roads
in snow-like drifts.
With first light, I was aware
of a body breathing next to me,
a warm whiteness with blond hair.

It was no dream.  I was scared
to squeeze it, to lose this vision
whose ashes I’d scattered
along the river over three
years ago. But it breathed
on and was trying
to tell me something,
emanating goodness—
to make me understand.

She was gone as soon
as I thought to hold her.
No don’t leave; stay, show me
your face, tell me it’s you!
She came with first light
and fled like morning bird’s song.

Downstairs for coffee,
I told our friends, who ventured:
“a re-appearance.”
After good-byes, I got on the road,
and out of the shadow
of the town’s scant cell service.

Messages filled my phone:
her mother had passed last night—
She had to tell me herself
as was her way.
My car spun small whirl-winds
through the drifts.

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