The creak of the wood burner,
the rattle of the chimney
and the crackle of the flame
as it flickers and dances
in the grate,
play a warn tune
accompanied by the rain
strumming the tin roof
of the cottage tonight.
How long will the sun linger
on the low edge of winters
western sky,
and how far will its shadow
reach across the iris
of my eye,
and how long will I stay
within the sound of its
lonesome cry.
They wrestle each other
and jump over the couch
and run up and down the stairs
as boisterous as boys will be;
then they whisper names
and tell girlfriend stories,
deep secrets for their
eight-year-old ears only.
In the long hours
trailing the waning moon,
sleep falls heavy on
my eyelids and I move
too slow to avoid
the trajectory
of shooting stars.
The two boys, cousins
at seven and eight years,
best of friends, embarking
on the flight of a lifetime,
opening the doors on the sky,
flying high above the earth
with eyes wide open and
dreams born in the excitement.