I sit on the edge of a dark pier,
past the point of where the waves break,
the force shaking the pillars more and more each time.

Each bulb is a firefly in the sky,
twinkling just enough to remind me of why.
Why we do what we do, and who we do them for.

The clear night stars only matched by the lightning storm in the distance,
brightening the earth’s edge for just a moment,
fast enough you can’t blink.
Slow enough to remember.

I’ve never seen anything like this night sky contradiction,
and I’m sure I won’t again soon,
but this may be as close to heaven on Earth as I can imagine,
and I’m privileged to call this place some distant home.

Where my grandfather was given life,
not far from where my grandmother was given hers,
on the night before I finally see where my father was given his to understand how mine was given to me.
What a life. What a sight. What a storm.

The spirals in the creek float to the edge only to disappear to reappear as new ones downstream.
The sound of the small rapid helps define the peace found here.
Hidden below the snow capped peaks, the water strolls through the meadow, icy cold — a perfect reminder that it may be summer, but winter is never too far away.
As the elk stroll across the land that is proudly theirs, we take advantage of their generosity and soak in every drop of serenity.

It’s incredible to soak it in.
The sea of cold sheets blanket us in comfort.
In this city we call home,
I’ve never felt so lucky.

It’s been a long time since my feet last touched the ground.
Four years.
And I don’t plan on landing back down.
Anytime. Ever.

Three numbers and a letter hang from an old wooden post,
the same I used to hang from years ago.
They ask me what I remember.
I remember everything.

Remember the times we’d rest on the tops of the grass,
staring up as the leaves fell down around us?
Oh, how we’d throw those brown dead spiky balls
we’d pick up and throw as far as we could.

Recall how we’d jump from the porch and onto the lawn,
running so Tom wouldn’t catch us. We had it all.
Back and forth in the rocking chair, backpack on the side.
Remember the TV, waiting for you to come.

Three numbers and a letter hang from an old wooden post,
the same I used to hang from years ago.
They ask me what I remember.
I remember everything.

Sometimes it’s hard to look ahead
when the cityscape is clouded
in a sheet of gray.
Is this where we will remain?

But the future’s a funny thing
in that if you know what it looks like
it may distract from the present
and never reveal itself.

Don’t look down.
Never look down.
Feel free to look ahead
but don’t you dare move your feet.

Hold the clock’s hands
knowing one day they’ll let go,
but do it only knowing
you held them well.