Pocono Lakeside

As I was guided by the director through the thick space

Of these rooms, worn sparrow brown, and strode

With the August sun on my shoulders across this particular

Acre of grass, nobody had told me this was the place

Where you had summered as a boy.  I have weathered

My fourth decade, older now than you were

When you died. I can barely remember you, yet I can see

You not as my father but as my son. You are age nine.

The downpour divides into two massive stage curtains

Parting. You bolt from the bunk, loudly racing

With your chums down the slippery hill to the dock,

Your cape of a towel flapping as if ready to lift you airborne.

You are the smallest. Still, you always run in the front.

You do not know how beautiful you are, of course, squinting

Against the sun, the flame that escapes behind the gray

Vapor for hours, sometimes for days. You cannot see

That from the beginning it has been eyeing you from afar,

That it has focused its golden spotlight just for you.