It was reported that she had died,
but I saw her
months after the obituary.
She came to me in a dream naturally,
the mind has to be as relaxed
as a three-toed-sloth
before it can report any intelligence to us.
I knew her, the way a distant relative
knows you from an old black and white photo.
Anastasia: a crazy name for an Irish woman,
but actually quite common
in the long buried book of Celtic Memories.
I was hanging-out under my eyelids,
the way a winter sun hangs under a winter tree,
or a sloth hangs from a moist lichen reverie
When Anastasia - her 80 year old hair
flying on countless dove-gray moonbeams
came to me,
a pitter-pattering of soft rain
falling onto my big, round, brown,
“I am not dead, and you are not dead.”
I should have been afraid
but fear takes much more energy
than I had at that moment.
I heard myself answer:
“Then you are alive”?
The soft rain continued to speak:
“Did I say that”?
That’s all I remember.
Later, just for we big thinkers,
I commenced to rummage
through the long buried book
of Celtic Memories.
It was then that, ever so slowly,