I worry about their dreams,

the ones coming home now. 

After the impossible

embraces, the honeycakes

and sweet wine, once they have 

soaked for hours in a bath 

perfumed with orange blossom,

folded themselves back 

into their favorite clothes, they will, 

then, have to close their eyes,

give in to what dreams may come,

alone, in the dark, as we all do.

In that strange state, no one

is free; everyone is captive, caught

fast in cords of their own

mind’s making, unable to move

one finger, one thought—

even these dear, weary ones

whose only hope in five hundred

days of dirt and rustwater 

was the escape of oblivion. I pray

now the borders of their sleep 

will enclose a pleasant land, full 

of tender spirits. But if the night 

is wild and full of terror, 

may they wake to find a hand

already holding theirs.