September

Sometimes it’s September
and I see you looking back at me
from that other world at the edge of a breath,
between blinks that grow
like shadows of the evening.

I plant myself by your bed,
my feet growing roots so deep in memory
that even now I can touch your cold toes,
hear your quieting breath
like the last notes of a great requiem.

You taught a particular beauty
that our two languages could not hold.
And though you no longer speak through your mouth,
but mine and my brother’s,
we wear your smile

that one that fled with the northern lights
as the sun rose the next day
and continues to rise despite
the nighttime in your eyes.