Two thousand and twenty-five
Poet’s Corner up the stairs at City Lights.
The skate park in the shadow
of an underpass in the Mile End.
The vivid orange arc of a space launch
through the inkdark skies above Cape Canaveral.
Stumbling upon a Christmas parade
down Gravenhurst’s main drag.
The renewal of great cities some thought lost.
Awe at sacrifice. Admiration at effort.
Patience as the thing builds.
Pushing, pushing, pushing.
The bustle and brilliance of film and photo sets.
Pop flashes, glinting lenses.
Careful attention paid to the contour of cloth,
the subtext of a glance to camera,
the reflections of hands and faces in bent metal.
Human imagination. Human intelligence.
Idiosyncrasy. Personality. Tangibility.
The feel of warm, worn Roman stone.
The hush of a dimly lit cathedral
just off a bustling piazza.
A gigantic storm unfolding itself
over the red clay of a Sicilian olive grove.
All the sacred early mornings with my boy
watching the light of a new day
rise quietly beyond the trees
through the tall back window.
Recognizing the same look of determination
in his eyes that I know so well from my wife’s.
Witnessing him learn the wondrous machinery
of his body and mind.
The last, slow, beautiful walks with Kingsley
under the cold light of dying stars.
A growing year in this very life.
