I dreamed of a house in France,
an old estate with high-ceilinged rooms
fragranced by aged wood and faded bouquets
brought from the market
by rickety wagons over cobblestone streets.
My sister was there,
and in the style of collaboration
that takes years of practice to master,
we thinned back the hard gray of patriarchy
long enough to soak our souls
in the sweetness of Provencal sunlight
and sudden serendipity,
familial omen held in abeyance
by a canvas of well-cultured denial
(otherwise known as survival).
As the dreamtime spiraled its spell
we walked through orchards, learning perspective
among rows of perfectly lined olive trees
leading to a singular, stubborn horizon
hazed by distance, yet clearly inevitable.
In expressionist irony, we sharpened our eyes for detail
on ancient trunks gnarled as the old man's hands;
knobbed knuckles and twisted limbs
punctuated by crooked fingers pointing to questions
in every direction of cerulean sky.
It was here in the mad crawl of hours
that the horizon closed in on us,
taunting us with its permanence.
The caw of Vincent's crows pierced the dawn.