Waking to your reflection on the pane
blurred already in the maple’s arms
I think of Orpheus about to look
and Eurydice about to die again
and shut my eyes, letting the night fall back,
which brings me suddenly to the young boy
up early one fall morning long ago,
fumbling for his glasses while the world
seen dimly as through tears or through the window
of the airplane taking him from home that night
receded more the more he tried to look,
as he now vanishes the moment I
open my eyes and find your image too
fading away, the day about to break.