See the sun showers farther away,
that spit across the channel
bathed a bit more golden,
like a dream—if you could get
there from now.
Start with the photo album,
thick plastic casket
where pictures fade into the past
like postcards from those first years.
Or crack the atlas of antiqued prints,
worry plotted here, and here—
God save us the stars to chart by,
then the horizon edged saffron
by dawn’s feather pen.
Seeing now is holding
tomorrow at arm’s length.
Some morning this hurt will break
like the last paper ice cracking
under your boots in spring.
Around a corner you’ll feel
brilliance mapping your shoulders,
memory no longer your enemy.
Your hands free, rocks for skipping.
If a stone can fly—