Your T.S. Eliot book
lies quiet and new
like a fresh white egg
on the mottled windowsill,
a birthday gift from my son.
Already a month ago
your smiles over candles
sank into the west.
It's a new printing,
The Waste Land,
a scattered prophecy bound
as the water of life
that goes tumbling over
and about the life of us
so quickly now, and yet
you pause and dream with me,
inhale the dust
that tends to gather
wherever there are things,
and be with me, my son,
the world, however thin our wings.
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