Toward the End

I dreamed I was Thomas


No snow, no fire, no ice,

only old man Thomas, sitting in smoke


weaving black mukluks from raven feathers

singing the song of his own death.


I couldn’t remember the melody or the story

when I woke up, only the salt taste of

Chukchi Sea, Kuskokwim River, Dead Man’s Creek.

I never met Thomas, but something about the song

I couldn’t remember made me want to see

how long I could cry.

I once cried an entire summer

but summer is short here.


4 thoughts on “Toward the End

  1. Rose, the Thomas poems are amazing — an achievement for National Poetry Month that you should be REALLY proud of. The last line of Thomas’ Dream Diary, September 19, 2012 (your April 14th post) is devastating: “Later, this will be nothing.” After reading that I had to remind myself to breath. And (totally separate thought here…), as I was reading the line in today’s poem about the mukluks made from raven’s feathers, the final scene of the movie Dead Man drifted into mind — then four lines later, the reference to Dead Man’s Creek. Your poems are like little electric probes that poke at our brains and bring hidden mysteries and confluences to the surface. Kudos to you!

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