They shiver in the wind:
The two somber little blond boys
Who work together to scoop a dead,
Soggy insect out of the river.
I sit and watch still and silent as a stone in the warm water.
The chilled wind carves my weathered cheekbones
With kind and cold familiar fingers.
It has felt my face before.
And I know it will leave me
To continue south,
To feel faces in Belize and Bolivia.
To Cape and cold,
To billow the flags of Auckland and Myanmar,
To crackle a fire in Siberia.
To remove a man’s hat in Japan.
One day it will be back here,
And notice a missing perturbation,
Then, remembering my face.
It will whisper my name,
Winding through the trees.