Three words comprise the frame my son last made:
his soft "Hey, dad" to greet me on the phone,
his single, loving "Papa" with our last embrace--
and in between?...just Mark, the man to fill
a thousand frames invisibly in love
that clings unbound to arms, to blood, to tears...
who threw his hisory away unowned
and paid for it with memory alone.
Eleven years are here to testify
the sweetness in the settlement was not
enough, that though the picture glows
with spirit timelessness, it shuns the touch,
the laughter, the uncertainty that spears
the mind, seizes on the unexplored,
and must rejoice inside the now.
It is for you who read, to intercede
in the rejoicing...I must let it go
a little while, although I know
there is no need to pray
that Mark and I will follow through
within the morning's deathless day.