Ask me what the finger wrote and I would stop, startled

into visions of pages of white which I pencilled with numbers in blue

tracing streets in blackened rivers on an old map gathering dust

the paper yellowed by time, corners thumbed into shreds

turning as brittle as the parchment skin of your hands

that held mine and paused, so I could hear you smile.

there were no words back then, words were meaningless

just a gurgling stream that neither of us could cross

yet I think we heard each other quite clearly

as I prattled about my lives and you tried to shield my loss

your lips drying as you sputtered words you could not utter

hungrily grasping the glass of water only to have it shatter

as it fell from your shaking palms scattering under the bed

little shards of glass even now buried under the cupboard

where they rest, broken pieces once unbroken, held by hands

that held mine, that held me, that made me strong, that let me go

when it was time although time is never time enough

see how time tumbles through the rabbit hole

squeaking to a stop when you least expect it to, pooling

into my blood the first time I ever held your grandchild in my arms

wondering if that was your smile I saw, a fleeting image tugging at my soul

while time traipsed around the corner and the child turned into an adult

spreading wings that reach skywards into the direct light

of the sun you told me I could always reach