Dreams are like mist at evening,
Blown in from the cold, gray sea;
A night bird's lonely calling
For things that never can be;
Like down from a thistle passing
On the wings of a summer breeze,
Or the heartache in the murmer
Of whispering, restless trees.
Sometimes, like distant music
Strangely sweet and clear,
I dream I hear you calling,
And feel that you are near.
Mabel Clare Thomas
Note: I found this poem, yellowed and creased, clipped to an entry in my journal when I was sixteen, long before I had suffered loss of any kind. It was as if I somehow knew it would be relevant in the years to come.