These Hazy Days

Treeline

lately
the undercurrents have begun to rise,
to grow and swell among deep waters.
now they have nearly surfaced,
nearly crashed and spread to none.

lately
I have feared loss.
I have feared intangibility
and impermanence.
I want, so much,
to remember this life.
I am afraid.

my brother is frightened, too.
last night he severed his longest love.
in two months he'll live elsewhere -
in two months he'll be gone.
he brings both hands to his face
and his shoulders shudder
as tides of sadness yet unknown to me
rise and fall within his body.
even his sounds of grief
I want to remember.

last week we walked through
an empty house. he knew its walls well,
and I did not, but it smelled familiar.
he sat down to play the piano.
I listened and wept softly
but I don't think he knew.
does he know
the lengths to which I love him?
does he know the size of the rift
that his absence will create?
I can already see it, the great divide.
here he stands in the open field
while I watch from the treeline.

lately
I've been so full of love it hurts.
I look forward to change, but not like this.
I want to leave the treeline's shadow
and come into the golden light.
I want to wade through the wild grass
until I reach his side.
there we will stand in the quiet,
in the soft, diminishing day.
I will take hold of his hand
and he will stay.