Still Life
I watch you flipping through ten years
of photographs that have travelled
across multiple generations of your phone.
I like the way you pause and touch your
thumb to the screen as if to touch Sophia
at five years old, all blonde hair and
baby teeth, yellow shirt and purple shorts,
as if to splash the green-gray surf you
touched in Hilton Head or to wipe away
Drew's forehead sweat that July day by
the pool, as if to feel the cool of the new
white snow in New Harmony the morning
we celebrated our engagement for a quiet
hour before anyone else knew, and I get to
watch you smiling, swiping through so
many lifetimes of children grown, and
animals adopted and lost, and rooms
redecorated, and the holidays we've cycled
through, and you and I, neither of us,
the same, our shadows changed and
changing still. I am lucky to get to see you,
ten feet away, loving, still loving the times
that have passed right at the tips of our fingers.
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