Still, the words pile up, unuttered; the world trips on, only slightly aware the sun will swallow it 5 billion years from now. The dawn will come in the east every one of those days, sunsets will flare in all but the most occluded evenings. I will not be there.
You smile, busy with discovering, right now the sounds of a toy screwdriver struck against china, a moment ago, the squeak of a foam block against your teeth. You will notice the sun rising one day.
You will have your own evening. I will not be there
You burn with wonder and delight; you pull me laughing from my shaded age. You circumnavigate the room on pattering feet and I follow the orbit of your laughter. I could easily always walk this way with you, but I have my own sunset to attend.
Hugh Anderson is a Vancouver Islander. Sometimes an actor, sometimes a teacher, once even a bus driver, but always a poet, his poems have appeared most recently in 3 Elements Review, Praxis Magazine Online, Grain, Vallum and Right Hand Pointing. He has one Pushcart Prize nomination.
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