Refolding

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Tiny tears appeared on golden willow-framed cheeks,
Like dew drops on the first dandelion,
Sad as I receded, swept along by push of crowd,
Called to cities, seas and maddened beckoning of life
Beyond our playground world. Sad, because she knew
My clock ticked ten to her every one,
My rapids uncharted, port unknown.

Our fingertip nearness became inches, then miles, but
My merry-go-round seat beside her,
Meeting spot behind the school, 'round hidden corner,
Every day between the bells, my place remained,
Though I did not, would not.

"I will wait for you."

Tag each memory, let it find a home inside the closet boxes,
pressed inside book from childhood libraries. His warm hand
Cupped her face again, a brush of fingertips beckoning the years
To crumble again to minutes, leagues falling in on themselves to
Become again the brief warm space dividing each caress.

Pools and rivulets of memory now make a geography of faint recall,
A navigation of return on the floor of every room, history's map of love and
Moonlit promises chased back by the sun. She did not see his mast on
Familiar horizon again today, no word from the sun-kissed edge of
The world, no return.

"I will wait for you."

Beyond the briefest revolution of this spinning ball, this
Human moment, this half-formed idea of a hapless god,
An ebony expanse unfolds. Each crux of meeting waves,
Each measurer of steps and stones and coffee
Warmed by linked hands around the cup,
All spinning away, processional parades through
Vast dark seas. Enmeshed across ages they remain,
His rudderless boat, her chartless course,
Waiting for the great collapse, the refolding of it all.

"I will wait for you."

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