How far can it reach—

this eye of light? 

I would aim its sight

towards his last living day,

or further, to years lit

with snowfall, and alpine lakes

            traced by a boy on a board. 

To morning hours

reflecting burnished eyes,

the sheen of his hair,

astonished smile. 

 

Tonight the quarter moon is a scar

that burns upon this world

altered—his future slit from mine

by a glacier’s sudden shiver.

In a dream I traverse

the crest where sky joins earth—

forage through Time’s talus and shale

for boot prints, an agile echo, 

breathy relic.

 

How far can it reach—

this star of sight? If only

I could send its arc 

through the night 

so he might follow 

its radiance back to me.