I wish you at
my fantasy villa in France
on a fresh and sunlit
high-spring day,
and, affront the vineyards
and sounded waters,
I'll carry you over
our noon-washed lore.

Washed by running children,
their rhythm of pounding alive-ing
our bright uneven world,
its afternoon dust
freshly sparking light.

Our sons and daughters
will shine in fierce memory.

You'll bury me,
as our grandchildren, like flowers,
become emperors of space.

And we'll love each other still.