Not Ever

by Annette Snyckers

Never in the days
when you marched on short, sturdy legs
through the wilderness
of our garden,

never in the days
when summer sang in the high trees
and you sailed your toy boat
on the bird bath,

never in the days
of winter when we stayed warm inside
and you spread my silk scarves
to make a magic carpet,

never in the days
before a birthday when I baked a cake
and you stood waiting
to lick the mixing bowl,

not then,
not ever, could I imagine
that you would live
just behind the bulge
of the mountain —

so close to me,
yet almost beyond the moon.


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