Through the windows

of an aging photograph

I find us.

You glowing like you used to for me,

Before your casket laid open

welcoming a town full of frozen farewells.



In it

We sit on the chilled

Cement Steps of your house, with its paint faded

green and black iron shutters that rapped

in the sharp breezes,

Sucking the juices of bitter, hand-picked crab-apples;

And recounting

again and again

our prize collection of swindled marbles.



I'm brought back to October

when the winter winds blew -

cutting air, in from the east,

And leaves, like fall's quilt,

making simple obstacles in our journeys with all the miniature

tornadoes.



I remember some days after lunch

we'd lose ourselves in stalks of high corn

that stretched in unmapped mazes;

sweet smelling and suspicious of our purpose,

towering over our crystal eyes.

I'd have followed you on any trip to find a tree-fort palace

or a tractor-driving king.



Looking back now

through the cracking window

I see shadows of all you could have been.

Your soul escapes through sandy-blue eyes

like stolen marbles polished bright in my shaking possession.

These are reminders,

like your swords

of all those matchbox car smiles and rainy afternoons you gave me.