The river is wide
to carry creation to the sea—
forest, stone, poems written on fern,
obits and records of birth
and all that lies in between,
fury of the furnace and the jealousy of ice—
all are flowing in this liquid time
to a nonrepeating decimal place
lost in the infinity of pi.
Nothing is forgotten
in this rush to the genesis of resurrection.
I see my grandfather’s rocking chair.
It was his cradle and throne,
its spindles and curved runners
riding a blue quantum wave.
His spirit is surely swimming in the current,
half in and half out of the grave.
I climb the steps to his wooden porch
and sit in an antique chair,
wondering at what point in the afternoon
I will see myself gliding by,
smiling and none the worse for wear.