stories roosting here

every time You hefted a hammer
every moment in Your hand, all the
motion of You teaching me.

Your name was Lou, short for Louis.
brother to grandmother Janet, her
gingham stray cats.  including me.
here, ripples curve around Your memory.
there was an old rusting window screen
on the sleeping room end of the hand built
shack right behind the house.

when he was home, Bob slept here, not oft, then none.
later.  new-lain orange striped kittens in a window box.

the room inside seldom visited was all
pale yellow with not being seen, maybe even
changing the light to be more

like itself.
looking changes us because to look is to become.
written in tongues, another hand?
there there, having me
a reflection brings You to the same place twice.
was it wind or water that first touched Your face?

I fell in love while You were tying your shoes.
it just came to me.  swift images keep walking
down the street.
there was a garden fountain gone askew,
a slightest touch would correct

(from above) back inside down the stairs
out the door west on the stone path for
half-a-house length make one turn a few
angled steps left grasp the rail, balance,
bend and nudge.

he doesn’t.
how much light one star will ignite,
then all of them, all, everywhere and when

no shadow to misstep.
spirit, sing me each sound I hear.
echoes too are Your lips.

a broom sweeping, a rake combing the soil,
a wooden box dragged across a pebble floor, that
embrace who remains beside the open door.
whatever You touch You become
whatever touches You, the same.

when mother said be kind, what she
meant was be careful about being afraid.
don’t disturb what you don’t want to
the end is no more at cause of the
beginning than the beginning is at
cause of the ending.
I was the man reluctant to be the boy.

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