It was my eleventh summer,
A balmy British Colombia night.
Splintery planks pressed up through our clothing as we
Lay on the narrow dock, elevated just above the lake’s surface-
Dark and gleaming and peppered with reflections of stars,
So many molten diamonds that
Danced and distorted in the languid breeze.
You reached up to trace the constellations with a fingertip,
Your words weaving visions of goddesses and monsters,
Of hapless Orion and swift Pegasus.
I wondered at the way you read the stars
Like incandescent Braille.
If I ever have a child, father,
I will lie with them beneath a summer sky brimming
With a spill of stars that sparkle like champagne.
I will trace for them the constellations
And I will think of you.
