Untitled

A string of lights in the sky outside
this boy's window.
Some ordered migration to heaven.
Are you waiting
like I am?
or are you already there?
If so
what becomes of me?

I wished for a light at night,
a beacon
to where you laid your head.
I wished to follow its glow
no matter how far.

Sibelius said of his sixth,
"this reminds me of the smell
of winter,
the first snow."
How it glittered and shone
and chilled his nose but
awakened something as well,
when all else slept.
Something slumbering too most of the year
but
out of hibernation
spoke beautiful notes
and the harmony of the world
would flow through his creased fingers.

I wish you to be
the smell of the first snow
to me.
That light in the sky
that purposes my wanderings.