Sometimes in my dreams, small, naked babies
are dropping from the sky like
slow-opening flowers,
like you, Natalie,
who have come here to blossom
on the prairies of our dreams,
new, and tiny, and fragile,
and totally unafraid
of all that is racing towards you
faster than the sound of hooves,
faster than the darkening sky,
faster than anything
the mind can hold,
but not as fast
as the sound of Love, Natalie,
which today has no sound
but the sound of your name.