Here, Now

He's in a wheelchair, bundled,

shoes with generous tread that

will go unused, and his voice

is slurred, as if coming from

a shell, the edges rounded off,

the sea's soft sibilance, and

I hear it resonate through

the chair's metal frame, as

he sweet-talks the willowy

rec therapist. Next, I feel

his weight, lean into the

handles to push him through

the parking lot, where he sees

the building's exterior for the

first time, and together,

we feel the spring breeze,

life again, blossoming trees.

Then we sit on a bench, eye level,

the familiar cadence of conversation

with his blue eyes bright, recalling

years of stories, each one opening

like a bud, new again--

and today is a seed opening,

another beginning, one that

will come to me, spirit willing,

a perennial memory, some spring

--or winter—far from now,

as sure as the warm air

and sun here, now.