Later,
after the bokeh haze
of adaptations
crafted for children
concerning
your arrival,
your passing through
dimmed
from fragile pastels
to harsh, oxidized
firmament,
The trouble between us began.
Some years,
frost still
caked the soil;
and the coat racks
in the foyer
still swelled
the way they did on Christmas Eve.
Other years,
the doors and windows
were propped open,
and the ceiling fans turned,
and Sunday School
spilled out onto the
eleven-o'-clock
lawn.
We took turns
passing hands
over the cornerstone:
Remembrances that were
not holidays;
milestones
adrift
upon the ancient calendars;
and days dreamlike
and unsteady
when we were led,
hastily choreographed,
up from behind the choirloft
stairs,
confused palm fronds
waving in imaginary abandon.
When I surrendered
to your triumphant
entrance,
I was but a child.
How could I have known
the dark depths of your great will;
the dread potential
of your great silence?
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