It’s the morning after I’ve dreamt you died
and wind is clapping at the door,
bringing mahogany water beetles
and blistered brown leaves
as offerings.

My dog, curled up near the crack
in the door, dreams of his homeland:
the white quiet of Tibetan mountains
where snow falls in wisps
around each prayer and sunrise
is the slender arm of God
stretching through the trees
toward your heart saying,
You have been patient.

In the dream, your death felt as real
as a yawning snake.  The night
clicked its mouth open
and took you, and you were
a new kind of gone. I thought
I would have to live with this
in a very real way.  The dry
tongue of your empty placemat,
only the one alarm clock
ringing me into this stormy morning.

But you come in
from the grey breath of rain:
my welcome ghost.