In the dream I walk with my teacher across a field.
It is day, the field
a dying brown.
Lifted by sudden wind we stand
in midair, our wool coats hanging
like heavy curtains.
When we drop back down, our boots in the dust,
I ask, “Why did that happen?”
She says, “Because we saw Christ.”
I say, “I didn’t see him,” remembering
the sycamores at the edges.
She says, “It was because of the resurrection.”
“No,” I say. “It was Jerusalem.”
Keep me close to the flaw,
to the cracked soil. Don’t let me
fly up again; keep me living
inside the laws and the lightning, planted
and learning, leaning
into this difficult field.