Looking out the window

Sometimes he would speak
as if painting, holding us ^{to the sun}
so we could see it seep through the fence
like time does in the Fall.

At night we were up for hours,
vigilant,
chasing
s t a r s
that had died millions of years ago
but waited for us to see them
splinter across the sky
like fireworks.

We perched on his nose
and listened,
eager to learn
of how the Earth stops spinning
when we dance by ourselves
or tell someone we love them
for the first time;

and it was only years later,
when the first Summer came
after he died,

that we would push our bare feet
into the sand and pray it was enough
to be remembered by,

a sudden gust of wings
in someone's memory
like he always wished he would be.

João Coelho