Sunday Poem

All Her Life

I lay down for a nap. But everytime I closed my eyes,
mares' tails passed slowly over the Strait
toward Canada. And the waves. They rolled up on the beach
and then back again. You know I don’t dream.
But last night I dreamt we were watching
a burial at sea. At first I was astonished.
And then filled with regret. But you
touched my arm and said, “No, it's all right.
She was very old, and he'd loved her all her life.”

by Raymond Carver
from Where water Comes Together With Other Water
Vintage Books, 1986