When the weight of the sun’s warmth sets again
and begs to look and hold again, and dreams
are dreams again, and the sigh of a hand is
fate again and my limbs and moons controlled
again, the ground will stare at
the first and last moments of light
warm late into the night again

Before gold summit curves that pen
marks of young boys and girls trace to
recognize the shape of permanence
in the world, before lines are remembered
on a face and counted like the rings of trees,
before the transience of weather and now,
everything was almost close to the
outline we saw clearly as kids.
Barren stones which may become
ridges someday; beginnings
must feel like endings
at the end of them