A Poem, Yellowed and Creased

~Dreams~

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.