In those days I'd dream into a sad awareness
That Russian missiles were four, three, two hours
From my country, my dorm, my world.
Always autumn in the air, always scarlet leaves
Hanging on soon-to-be-extinguished trees:
And I'd take a quick path cross campus,
Past chemistry classrooms, chapels and libraries.
I'd walk to an old church in my dream, every time,
Sixty minutes, fifty, forty.
There was morning light in the old church hall,
And coffee in the air, and old women with walkersAnd old men with canes leaning into a circle.
And every time, at the end of every dream,
I'd take the hand of one of the old ones--
And every time she'd squeeze mine tight,
Thirty minutes, twenty, ten.
I'd wake up, rattled by a familiar dreading,
And grateful for odd roommates I'd never understand.
I imagine the old women with walkers and the
Old men with canes are gone now,
Sent off with hymns and buried in
Cemeteries under trees that flower in spring,
Flame out in autumn, sag beneath winter's snow.
But I want to be one now, or become one soon,
An old man with wrinkled hands
That reach for the frightened
When danger's in the air and the bombs are falling.
