Once you were bright
as a blizzard, sharp
and brittle as a cage

of bone. The light flailing
along the pond’s surface

looked still and scarred
beside you. The maple’s
obdurate leaf singed itself

in the blaze of your wake,
and it was autumn. Now

you worry this truth
against your inner ear:
W[a]hen your son comes

to mind you, he will slip
from your psalm

like silk through a keyhole.
No longer a cluster
of colors bound like paper

wings to your shoulders.
Your voice of stones

will mark its stillness
against his bluster of sky.
And you will fall heavy

as a heart against
the cracked cage door.