When you came, I left the hospital wearing scrubs onto the hill,
I tilted my head and listened for music. Droplets
flamed and retreated. How when I wished on a falling,
I was reminded of childhood, of the kind of succulent
that dwelt in my heart through teen years
and filled notebooks with poetry. I must be old now.
I don't recognize constellations. I don't write
in margins. I no longer perseverate for hours.
Last time you were here, I was not so practical,
I belted my passions and cared not who heard.
In one sun-tinged voyage, a Perseid year,
my maps unfurled, left me wanderlust.
I captain a ship that once fixated on a single point,
a pivot that deserved obsession, all dream and wish,
every one of those Swift-Tuttle rocks, and now
we flitter starlight to starlight, neither indecisive nor lost.
Everything seemed to shrink since you came last
but now, I look into the far edges of that canopy
and wonder where you came from, where you go next.
Image shown under Creative Commons Attribution Share-Alike License, from Wikipedia.
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