Bear at the Door by Barbara Parchim

The house was all noise and confusion,

too bright and full of people -

then a knock at the door, full of portent,

and my friend was saying

“This is what we’ve been waiting for”.

Moving to open the door with foreboding -

the velvet night greeted me, thick and dense.

On the other side of the screen

a huge black bear, unlit and silent.

No words were spoken,

yet there was language -

a summons, the stare compelling and clear,

an ursine messenger

come from the wood trailing the scent

of pine, damp earth and forest floor.

He turned and strode into the west

and shutting the door behind me with finality -

as one closes a finished book -

I followed into the moonless night,

knowing he would accompany me

into a wilderness of which I knew nothing.

The dream ended and I awoke

with only the certainty

of a message I couldn’t decipher.

Three weeks later, the diagnosis arrived

like an unwelcome guest

complete with the baggage

of protocols and treatments and prognosis

Suddenly the dream became clear -

a guide sent in dream time

because the body knew the journey

before the mind had the news.

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Barbara Parchim lives on a small farm in southwest Oregon.   Retired from social work, she volunteered for several years at a wildlife rehabilitation and education facility caring for raptors and wolves.   She enjoys garden and wilderness hiking.   Her poems have appeared (or are forthcoming) in Cobra Lily, the Jefferson Journal, Turtle Island Quarterly and Windfall.