It’s a night for sepia stars
Smiling softly their twinkle-less smiles
For the brink of a season – printed paper-boats
Bottles and bottles of homemade preserve
Newspaper and taxis and crumbled tickets
Where we were – and where we’ll stay.
Goodnight faces, the curtains still whisper;
It’s a night for remembering – we’re happiest today.
Follow the cold star, the bright star, the still star
The waters are pouring, the dusk and the day
Sneakers and cartons and bright yellow flowers
Geometric magic – and the rest have to stay.
Huge purple cases with nametags – and scribbles
Stamps and stamps and signature ink.
Journeys are ribbons – and journeys are nametags
And journeys are brinks – and they’re here to stay
The wrapped and the packed and the sent away bagged
The stored and the floored and the above-the-front-doored
Some things are happy – and some things just fine
And some things best kept between two frozen lines
But the most that could happen with fried-egg scorched sunsets
Are the things that have left – not the things that have stayed.
They come back greeting – in the thick of our meeting –
The sunsets are fried eggs and the bags are unpacked
The lines that were frozen melt softly and gently
Into two little pigtails – and they tumble back.
Into still framed smiles – some twinkle-less smiles
When we move ahead leaving sepia behind
And the stars are the ones that’ll stay here forever
And we – very quietly – have left them behind.
