The moon is a burnt orange goddess
traversing the quay. Beads of rain arrive
as shooting stars down a misty window
on the starboard side, blurring city lights
and memories old and new. Gold flecks
adorn a velvet ceiling and silver candelabras
stand to attention on circular tables, arms taut.
The dance floor is a terpsichorean collage
of sequins and twirls ─ your graceful steps an
untethered voyage to a warmer place and time,
like an Arctic Tern chasing the sun to the end
of the earth; each summer an invitation to begin
anew. Rebirth is running half-way to Athens,
or letting go of the past in the divine heights
of Bhutan. At the end of the Camino de Santiago
trail, a pilgrim glimpses the boundless Atlantic,
and sees traces of herself.
A lone paperbark on Noble Street weeps.
Weary branches clutch the frayed rope
of June’s dearest swing, flailing listless
in the barely-there breeze.
The picket fence is turning to ash —
scene of longing and long goodbyes,
where you said every death is the end
of an untold story.
Since you left, moments lie dormant.
They stir on the wings of mundane cues
like running through Hyde Park
as swans convene in the autumn fog.
I dreamt you planted a lemon tree beside
a monument to the dead. I prefer the one
where you tend flowers on the porch
while bees mingle in the midday sun,
and the village it takes to raise a child
binds you — breaking any fall.