When your dream became mine,
it was a sunday morning,
and we were all there with you
and you were quieter than usual.
Then at your lounge chair,
hands clasped at the knuckles,
old, indestructible knuckles
like the knots of trees,
you began to tell
a dream.
Back in the cockpit of a B57 bomber
flying low,
so low you nearly clipped the tops of the trees
of a thinly wooded tundra.
I knew exactly what it looked like.
But, Grandfather, it was so silent,
there was no sound,
you and I were sailing in the sky.
I could see every detail below me
and as far as possible in the distance.
I was listening far more closely
than you could imagine.
For I could hear the images
across the boundaries of time and memory.
God, that thing just hovered there.
No wind, no turbulence
no sound.
The silence of understanding.