in silhouette on a park bench in Montreal
he had a paper bag beside him
in his hands he held nothing at all
I thought to just keep on walking
as I have never met Leonard the man before
but in the dream I look a place beside him
and he asked me, “who’s been keeping score?”
In a hush, I answered, “I am still learning,
but, like you, I am not so sure of this game.”
He smiled then so slowly as he buttoned up his coat
“It’s alright now, you are not to blame.”
We watched as the moon turned to ashes
its fragmented silver covering cool ground
A cowboy drummer sprinkled orange peel
served us steamed honour, words without sound.
From the bag, there rose up a bluebird
spreading her wings as she soared for the stars
An accordion player tipped his hat as he passed
he was late for the night train to Mars.
Knowing without knowing the possibilities in dreams
I sat next to the Poet Melancholy like a friend
collecting silver sage for my own guarded house
food and drink for my Garden of zen
I dreamed last night of Leonard Cohen
and me sitting on a park bench in old Montreal
a choir of two howling in dissonant harmony
“Je ne regrette pas rien,” the final lament.
And I wondered if that was all could be true
or if it was only circumstance made it so
a rhythm maker’s journey through eternity
gathering the heartbeat of the soul
for reclamation to the Tower of Song.
[and now, a quiet goodnight. lift you soft in the pale November light.]