Morning’s hours gone and I’m just rising,
The boxsprings complaining as always as I roll
Over the big bed’s edge and to my feet, my habitual groan
Comingling with their mechanical music, a melancholy melody
Serenading sardonically the prospect of yet another day,
& I’m sure that other people make very different tunes –
Whistling merrily, happily humming when they wake;
God bless them!
& I’m rubbing at my eyelids, wherebehind lingers
The image of Laverna
Of whom I have dreamt again:
Her white hair piled high,
Her mirror-practiced smile
Firm above her tiny chin.
I’m forever amazed at how lasting an impression
Has been made on me by this little once-upon-a-time boss-lady of mine –
Only a handful of tourist-seasons’ turnings we shared
At that Alaskan hotsprings resort she ran, where I worked
Lo now these twenty years gone –
Still she appears in my dreams.
Dream-Laverna proffers neither praise nor reproach,
Unlike real-life-Laverna, who was forever overflowing
With both at once.
My dreamscapes don’t revisit the extreme beauty of the resort:
The miniature glaciers surrounding the pools of steaming water,
The low rows of cabins – just careful piles of logs, chinked with grey cement,
The glorious mountainous surround, the aurora borealis dancing nightly
In those wild northern skies over the glistening landing strip
Where I met in an ice-encrusted van the little Cesnas full of Germans,
English, Japanese… come to that great white wilderness to play, no
I don’t dream these picturesque memories, but just
A prim, impassive Laverna.