Sometimes you liked
to talk about sunflowers
and how they seemed to capture all
the bits and rays of time
in one botched bloom.
It’s days like this when I remember
how you liked to bite the corners
off of your paper, and
how you always hand-delivered every
parcel and letter sometimes filled
to the brim with chattering
bits of yes’s and no’s.
We would sit at the top of the hill
and you would count each cloud
resembling the back of a child’s hand
mixed with the residue of a drizzle
and with each finger you’d name each
little ray of light as if it were your own,
and what does it matter about those stars
when your light is more numerous
than the sands and the seas
from here and there,
and out to wherever
you may now be.