I Dream My Son

I dream my son walks

with me to the edge

of a teal-colored alpine lake.

I dream it sparks blue embers

and reflects only that I may

have imagined my son's

entire existence. I dream my own face

transfigured in blue-veined

icicles melding into cobalt

wave after wave. I dream

the epiphany of frost

hushed across cottonwood branches,

and willow in early spring,

the very day my son was born.

I dream of bells, cornflowers,

and the effervescence

of bodies being born to dream.

I dream of undulations

and how the Maya blue

sky remembers

my son’s journey even when

I have forgotten. I dream

I am beside a tarn that holds

one boulder tumbled

down from fields of many.

I dream the act of its falling

has clarity, as if in falling

it creates a line, a scar as blue

as an iris that I might recognize.

I dream my son dances on some far land,

his young body moving

from space to space, valley to valley.

He is always beside midnight

blue lakes where he beckons, radiant.