Dream
Jon David Andersen

I was rapping on the door
of your mountain house,
the aurora borealis shook impatiently,
sprung against the sky.
My teeth chattered – as gray and cold
as Katahdin above treeline.
You finally opened up:

There I was, holding the door
waiting for Bertolt Brecht
to come in from admiring the trees.
There was a black lab – blind and friendly.
A woman in nineteenth century dress
who, we all agreed, was very beautiful
(even the trees lined up along her path

(her little footsteps on black matted
leaves of the forest floor)).

I swear that was Dorothy Day shuffling
past the pot-bellied stove
clutching an infant deeply in her arms.
The rest of us had no famous names—
there must have been twenty of us,
some yellow, red,
black and blue, strung-out,
stomping and crying from war.

We all came in and had some soup.
I know that you were angry at first but
the next day we had work for everyone
in the bright valley, with all the food!

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