That night you left, I saw you smiling,
I did not hear or see your stringy joke.
(They say hearing is the last to go.)

In my mind, I keep your laugh, prickle of
branches, scratch of live oak next to the
khaki tent where you rested one last time.

In September, your slow step, not the stride
of a sixteen year old boy— instead, the walk
an old man takes amongst the falling leaves.

Your red hair— the supple thing about you—
waving— short arms— tiny hands— sardonic
clowns— gesticulating in the honey evening air.

The path below through roots and acorns lead
to buddies guffawing at the steps. What else
campfire conversation entailed is lost to us—

Exiled as chaperones out of sight— the jest
you now know cannot be shared. Such fun
is sealed within your lips— yellow, scornful

As the January sun. It’s odd, as we the breathing,
feel left out in the cold. The wire-trimmed glasses,
tilt on your nose with fog since your body is

Covered by black dirt. Your Mother reaches
out her arms to hug— we’d known you longer
than she’d dared expect. Our days lengthen.

New threads of clouds passed by. The faintest sky
trails off behind a wall of cypress. Spirit. Blaze.
Autumn. Cocoa, Pranks. Lucky friends.