to Aimee, as she and Andrew marry

Drying my head, fresh from shaving, from shower,
exploring my past and his past in the hour
allowed, only one, between sleep, school and work,
I focus so clear
on each sepia year,
eleven now past—I remember each quirk
of habit and ritual discipline grown
in darkness or humor. I’ve owned
them, and him, in this time-faded way.
My claim has expired; the memories will stay.

Walking in darkness, two nights ago,
I watch the wading heron watching me
and wonder, since I see him only in autumn,
always alone, if he has a thin tall feathered wife
somewhere south, a cajun queen heron,
a tropical mate on some West Indies beach.
I wonder if Illinois water holds memories. Distills them.
My shower. His river. We’re both migratory,
and return to the places that foster nostalgia.
We wash ourselves in where we have been,
what we have done, this tall gangly bird
and I. Autumn is a time of returning.
The leaves are like old photos, faded,
in sepia tones, collected in piles, scattered
by long heron footsteps or rushing black boots.
Returning recycles discovery, makes epiphanies
eleven years gone seem like new. In my shower,
near the river, on the road to Nebraska or back
to Ohio, I reclaim fascinations and friendships and failures
while the world changes golden and orange.

Lifting my head, from towel or thoughts
on a walk, I’ve dried many memories and taught
myself autumn, and herons, and water—
learned that patience and trust
never migrate nor rust
and as Margaret and Bob gain a daughter,
so do Gordon and Markus and I stake a claim,
that our love for him and for you are the same.
He is yours. You are ours. These old vows resworn—
in the orange and the red and the yellow, reborn.

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ChaoSpirals