The night she died
I had a dream.

She was walking
on an uphill footpath

toward an illuminated place.
Leaving me for the last time.

She turned. Smiling.
Thrilled to see me.

Baby sister knew I feared
to carry on without her.

“You’ll be OK.
I’ll wait here for you.”

Martha Ellen lives alone in an old Victorian house on a hill on the Oregon coast. Retired social worker. She writes poems and prose to process the experiences of her wild life.