He did not lose his son.
His son lost him, embellishing
a face at other doors and windows,
other elaborations shaped
like moons or buttons watching
him pass through sun, rain,
and evening mist, a gray hand
reaching from a door, like a wish.
And:
The stone had an idea about phases
How one can go from green
To gray against yesterday’s
And tomorrow’s sky. In between,
We are, he said. Then we’re not,
As the leaf, with a drop of the river
On its stem, turned under a limb
Slowly and passed into days to come.
