I opened my eyes, & found myself back in the dream –
prone, sway-backed, like Chaplin with a charley-horse
at apogee of that coruscant arch (center of universe).
No mustache, no charcoal suit... like that chump
who came to the marriage feast sans wedding gown
& was (& rightly) tossed. My cloud-traveling
companion (infinitely patient, kind) still levitating
at my side, said then : What ails thee now, Hen?
O, nothing much, I said. Homesickness, I guess.
I was, in fact, in mood most desolate. Remorse
like a void in the solar plexus – vertiginous &
seasick nausea. Dim sums of selfishness,
my life’s harvest : & underneath, a constant
unrequited yearning. For cobalt-blue
& quiet northern lakes... mute evergreen
uprightness of those somber pines. For what
it meant (one ordinary family’s unquenchable
& selfless love). What home is, Homer –
you prodigal wastrel. Pure nuptial chamber
(parabolic, most symbolickal). Humble... stable.
Father-motherly. So I wept there, on that prow
of steel, for all my foolishness – its sour fruit
of absences & dust. Natasha pitied me; brought
comfort, she. Recall Memphis Melchizedek – how
at Ebenezer he defined 3 kinds of love. You ark
a gap between eros & caritas. Yet... disconsolate
beseech for grace might find (in shade) its infinite
source, surnaturel – sheer-welded in a rose matrix.