Every summer
we planned
our grand adventure:
fishing tackle, Tintin comics,
jumping in Dad’s Jeep,
traveling without sleep
for a back seat view.
Fields glimmered in gold,
lakes shimmered
like sapphires,
spires of pines
lined dusty roads,
winding us towards
a shrine we shared
between us.

a greeting rose
from the cabin’s floor,
the screen door
chose to sigh,
as the farmer’s ghost
wandering the woods.
Tall tales like that
I told my brother,
bunked in bed
side by side,
by songs
of spring peepers
or lone logging trucks
along the road.

At twilight,
grass in June
tall enough by the trail
to sail the breeze
of the afternoon,
we stood amazed
at Devil’s Paintbrush
blazing on the hill.
Like a divine sign
deserving awe,
we lingered until we saw
a tiny pair of fireflies
to singe the air,
a duo that dared
to synchronize
flame with desire.
How did this
fire dance evolve,
what genius was involved
to generate a glowing light
to preserve their race?
What chance was there
from the very first,
that the Alpha of the Universe
was the same genius
to calculate that
the first day of spring
according to clocks,
would bring Earth
into Vernal Equinox?

For years,
the questions
and tackle tangled
in my mind, a mystery
of clues entwined
that had me hunting
in the attic
a month ago.
That dusty trunk
was like finding gold.
Those old Polaroids
still showed the lakes
where we went fishing,
our reflections framed
beneath a sky of blue.
Yet even that imagery
will never be as clear
as our epiphany
that night
when the world
was lit with fire,
when our hopes
never soared higher
and we were both closer
to living our dreams
as we would ever be.