I wrote this poem in response to a dream in which I, who never felt pretty,  appeared in  a swirling skirt. For the first time in my life, I experienced what it was like to be pretty.

You came to me late.

In a rush of wind and joy, you came.

You raised the dead

and stirred the still sleeping,

You charmed us all.

Through the silver-edged days of spring

you danced.

In the softness of summer, you held my hand

and led me back

over roads not taken when

time was ripe.

You used a finely honed and delicate knife

and the pain you brought

was almost pleasure.

You plunged deep and carved wide.

You hollowed out

an emptiness, a living space

and filled it with golden apples

with only a hint of green.

You didn’t stay. You couldn’t.

But you left behind

your dance,

your golden apples,

and you bade me eat.

                                                                      JDG

                                                                        1982