April 17

I don't know if you remember
but I do.

The monarchs with stick black legs
on stiff orange-headed flowers in a field so thick of summer
     you couldn't swallow without tasting some hours later
the winding way that the road had
with the bump like an eyelid
winking and blinking as the bike wheels squeaked
the sandy turnout by the mailbox and the rutted two way drive
the woods-
     oh, the trees!
full green so blinding you could see out of your grin
and the sounds
of the grasses
blowing
in
the
wind.

I remember.
I remember it all like no one else can.
No one but you.

You charged out into the world, knowing and claiming
understanding and relating
and I followed
quiet, eyes open, trying to make sense
trying to figure how the dots go together
seeing colors and sounds
as light and tone
floating in and fading away
unable to make them stick down
and pause
so I could formulate a question
     like my big sister could
but you were then gone
up the hill and around the bend
in my clogs
that were dutch blue with a white painted daisy
and I, sad, not able to walk over the jutting stones,
could never catch up
to
you.