Who came to me in my dreams as
Anna Kareninia arose from the train? 

Who kissed me to the ground
in her Icelandic cape?

Who showed me her cubic salt shakers
Whose mouth loved plum jam?

Whose hair was the golden hills
in Foothill park?

Whose eyes were lupins?
Whose champagne blushed poppies?

Whose song scaled Mt. Shasta as
I wove her a net of daisies.

Truly, if I had a dollar for every poem
I wrote to you in my mind speeding

Down Highway One o’ One, I would 
have given them to you. Then you could 

Have quit staring at that damn terminal,
Singing and dancing all day every day. 

It was little over a month since we had
our pilgrimage to Mt. Shasta. 

Those days saw we through many months
You said you were certain I was  sitting on

Mt. St. Helens.  I said no,  I am the volcano,
you are my sister, exploding.