You were never eleven,
We skipped straight through to ten and two
When July ate up twenty eight,
Nothing changed but the sun to the moon.
We stole an entire year from you
And buried it under the blazing pine,
Safe and cool at the roots.
I capture your face in my mind-frame:
Salt and a lid shut tight.
You eat sugary cereal, milk cool blue,
Your signature cowlick saluting a get-up sun.
What shape will you take as the next light lifts
the dawn like a rolling shade,
Opening up like a swell from a deep sea;
By design and doubtless,
And free from drowning.