I
Two friends hug in greeting
then talk while holding each other by the elbows.
Even from across the street their profiles bear a kind of light,
like creation.
II
Years after your dad passes away you see his smile
on the face of a man taking short careful steps across a parking lot,
so recognizable that your heart does a little leap.
You always loved seeing his smile from that angle,
the way his mouth shaped an open surprise,
the way his eyes came bright under his brow and how
the creases at his eyes gathered and deepened like ripples on a northern lake.
III
You’re with your son having a beer in an outdoor patio,
he sits like a swagger draped over a chair,
then suddenly runs half a block to retrieve a fallen grocery receipt
for a man with a walker. And you know
he would have ran halfway across the city.
IV
There’s a young woman at a small round table in a coffee shop.
Around her neck is a sheer scarf, one fallen end is draped
over a stack of books and spills over the edge of the table.
The forefinger of her left hand winds a loose lock of auburn hair.
Her right hand lightly touches her neck
while her elbows rest on the oak-top table, almost weightless.
The extraordinary warmth of ordinary light
falls through a window over her shoulders to the floor
while her grey eyes reach across to her partner
in secret conversation everyone knows:
in praise of every little thing.
