On its winter way west, the sun
inches its way up the aisle,
striking your framed photograph
through stained glass.
Your face lit up like the moment
I ran out of answers, and we could,
at last, begin.
Your face the one I saw speaking
inside of me – until I could see,
Afterward, I stand outside
and let go my hold of ribbon –
balloon aloft and adrift
in a bruised-purple dusk.