Once you were home safe
while sleet ticked against the roof
and snow subjugated the earth
glistening under the moon
our yard a field of light
luminous as your glow-in-the dark toys:
alien figures with big bulging eyes,
light sabers, a model of a brain,
objects that absorbed daylight,
then, after lights out, glowed green,
slowly fading.

The white expanse pierced by pine needles,
the scrawls of branches sleeved by ice
stark against the winter sky
gave way to a green and blooming world.
Now, in the scorching heat of summer
what glows in the dark
is the square of my phone
as I trace your scrawling path
through Pittsburgh or Barcelona,
the light as your 6 a.m. text
flashes, a sudden ghost
piercing the darkness.