I will ease the car
into its rightful place
and wrest the pace from the day
to call it my own again. And I’ll look up
to see us, now:
we are washing dishes after work
as though the whole of beauty rested
in the collarbones of cups.
You, framed in the light of windows—
old light through living glass.
You, my love, a familiar trail
to a place I’ve not yet been.
We will greet each other at the door
to make a home of the kindness we are given.
And the kids will come downstairs
from faraway castles
to say hello and embrace their fathers;
a suit of armor
too big for a boy.
They will remember waking up
earlier than Dad—Christmas morning.
They will remember walking alone
on the highway—the stars
before the cars backed up.
And we will go to bed that night,
laying heads and arms to tumble
like river stones until morning.
Your rolling breaths will cast about,
green and blue, as shadows—
they sing hymns to my chest
until I awake.
And here again, I find us:
we are standing
in the bright late-morning sun.
You are speaking
and I am beginning
to learn the words.