I am here in the evening light, my eyes now white like the museum sparrow, with a voice that no longer trembles: Remember the child.
I’ll visit as a songbird, a rabbit, and lead you up the dash with the wind. I waited for your permission, faceless, and you gave it.
It was a terminal we both knew: the open woods, a last request, an imposition, the letter E.
The leaves narrowed the highway and were full of water. You said so. That is life: the gray flattering the green.
You slept on the town beach, I throughout the day. I wondered if you’d become lost.
I gave you this land and told you the last time is never last.
We met in the afternoon and dined that night at an oval table. There was tiredness, the deep kind, and no wine— only the promise of August.
The post I am here in the evening light appeared first on The Atlantic.
