Some days, with glazed eyes,
you mumble curses at the statues
because they don’t offer shelter
or even “goodnight” before you sleep.

Some days, with dancing feet,
you whistle to the nesting wrens,
as the mama feeds her young,
an image of your Father.

You help me see beyond what is
to all that could be—

three cigarettes in your Camel pack,
“One for me, one for you,
one for Jesus,”
you say.

In the parking lot you hand me
flowers in a styrofoam cup,
“A gift for the one I love,”
you say.

Flipping through a travel magazine,
with a feather in your hair,
you plan a trip
to find your family’s jewels
in the Scottish Highlands.

“And you’ll come with me,”
you say.

“Naturally,”
is my reply.

I want to see the world
with your eyes.