When I Dream of You Young
Today I woke
thinking of you as you are
and as you have never been:
sundressed in a field,
the yellow of spring
in your step – and, pressed
against the balls of your feet,
the roots of every fledgling thing.
I exhaled the last wisp of sleep,
opened my eyes to rumpled sheets,
to our bedside clock set five minutes behind
the rest of the city. Your arms were cradled
between us, ambered,
the press of age
on the backs of your hands.
Your feet have never been warm.
Your mouth has never opened
to change.
When I dream of you young,
it is only a desire to know
a version of you that came before.
When I dream of you old
it is only an overabundance
of hope.
by Rebecca Cohen
from Across the Margin