Goodbye Home

I had a dream before you died
your house became a maze.
The walls had owls with yellow eyes.

We tried to find our way outside
but all the doors and windows
had somehow disappeared.

You were so sick, a walking bruise
shrunken in the soft worn
flannel housecoat you once filled.

You soon grew tired,
shoulders sagging, hollow
birdlike bones beneath my arm.

I went ahead to find the way.
Like magic, the front door appeared.
Sunbeams beckoned through the glass.

From the window I could see
a blue-green glimpse
of reassuring sky and grass.

I ran back to retrieve you.
We retraced my steps to find
the door was gone again.

This happened many times,
each more ominous
and dreadful than the last.

Finally you turned to me
to tell me something I already knew.
Before you spoke,
I woke up in protest.

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