When his mother died he saw
frogs on the window sill
The smell of old love followed him
through the hallway to a bright door
where a girl stood behind the screen
with day lilies bursting from her hands
His father was with the doctor
asking questions about the speed of light
Years later he passed a cardboard box
filled to the top with snow, the mouth
of a boot sticking out like the hole
of a cannon on a ship emerging
from the cold mists of the north
or someone shouting for the children
to come in for the night who dash like birds
through the gardens in midsummer
His father still calls and in a quiet voice
asks after the light and all that space
it leaves behind on its journey
to the empty edge of sound and touch
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