Old photographs fill the pavement
between glimpses of the road, stolen
from the storm by windshield wipers
at high speed. And I drive
through the rain picking through memories
scattered like high beams in the evening fog.
She twirls through those memories,
a parade of cameos in a silent movie,
black and white,
grainy as the songs that flicker at the edge
of the broadcast signal. Classic rock,
classical symphony, and a talking head playing
the rusty strings of Bible verse, all fight for clarity.
And in that static one song plays,
bursting through the mind’s photo album
straight from childhood wonder
into the still quiet of fatherhood.
Where my wife wraps her
in the ambiguous white linens,
smiling a full-toothed smile,
a cobblestone path to my little girl,
who hoola-hoops around guard rails
and hop-scotches over the double yellow.
I follow her
Puma puddle jumps until
footfalls fade into dry pavement.
My windshield wipers hum
against the blonde strands of dawn,
kneading shadowy rainbows into the clouds,
as she fades into the distant mountains.