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Boreal Sons
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Sparks
Beneath our falling feet
floorboards like choirs of cedars creaking,
fingers on paint-chipped keys,
we let our voices speak
speechlessly.
We watched the mountain lake
breathing itself away each morning,
a cinder singing smoke,
we let our bodies breathe
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breathlessly.
With your hand in mine and standing still
as your shirtcuff skimmed the windowsill,
Sweeping flecks of dust into the air
For the beam of sun to hold them there,
You said, 'let us be the dust we are
sparks of sunlight coughing in the dark.'
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