In the air now, straight lines of gray snow,
rain pushing down through just-freezing air.
Snow, the way I like it, on the verge
of warming back into rain. I try
to remember what you said you'd be
doing that day, what it sounded like,
turning to wonder, and maybe that
was the place I stopped and looked across
the water, looked through the snow, or what
was left of it, and saw lights coming
down the river, just lights, red, green, white,
ghostly at this distance, and yet real,
as if memory might be enough,
with more winter weather coming on.
Back then, I probably called it hopeful,
the way, suddenly, there were pale green
leaves on our maples, and a soft haze
penetrated the cooling sunshine.
It was on such a late Spring evening––
no, it was that very Spring evening,
I turned left off of Bybee and slowed at
the crosswalk, just past the old Moreland,
and after how many years, I thought of you,
how the vibrant light of the neon
around the theater's deco marquee
was like your blue eyes. But then, farther down
Milwaukie, waiting behind the 19 Bus,
I could not be sure either had been true.