Last night I dreamed of Leonard Cohen 

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.]