Green

I dreamed I was writing in green,
my father was dressed in green robes—

the dogs in the park were frisking,
you were spinning beneath a tall tree.

I saw the capital emptied
of those who hungered for home—

two pigeons took flight from a lamp post 
and swept down the lane in the back.

I heard they’d opened the jails,
and freed all the wrongly accused,

I was writing this poem in green,
my father came close and he touched me.