Before the Fish

In early August, the slight wrinkle on his brow,

Pushes sweat into long dusty piles,

Rows of summer’s habits.

Like the year before last

and the year before that.

His is the furled brow of finally remembering.

.

While her eyes, sometime gone askance,

Sagging with days gone long and

Now stale afternoon romance,

Still sparkle,

Like the playground at recess,

When the laughter carries

To those still inside.

Her glance is long and turning,

Letting go of a breath.

.

In a matter of weeks,

fixed on bright sky,

That precious harbinger of hope,

And the only window left,

They will cue up old records,

rehearse the dances,

Recall the words,

And sit, waiting.