for A.B.

Those childhood nights I ate at your table,
where life's mysteries were broken and shared—
I studied the blue willow plates you set each night.

Even during the worst winter,
my fork swept potatoes, gravy, bits of savory meat
and uncovered a story.

Each night I told myself a different tale, cast in the familiar pattern—
there were pagodas, fences, shining waterways
and a boat with a figure searching the horizon.

I expect you to break through,
Across these shoddy lenses soon,
To burst into view, knowing full well
I will lose you. Why’s it all waiting
And watching with you? Once,
In a cardinal’s dress, you hopped
From mind’s bough to heart’s branch
In one second, slipped on the dark
Vestments of ravens in the next.
I sense your nearness; and it sears.
And though my eyes will slack
From the long fear of blinking
And missing you, I’ll stay poised,
Steadfast, the watch-club’s last.

Our mistakes crack open. Each leaf
veined distinctly,

and we star-made music makers
are finger printed as well.

This is expansion: to stand as One with all.

The mountains a dense
explosion of trees.

Night comes to us sexy,
whispers to us about belief in light.

Words tumble from us. Honesty, a naked
falling.

We linger in the source of gardens.

For two hundred thousand years,
we have been deaf.

We forget meaning, our storylines
repeat the rhythm of our breaking.