Light as water drips down the banister,
Rippling with moving shadows at my passing,
It pools beneath the lamps and seems to spray the stairs,
Never soaking, ever foaming,
A careful tide beside my jagged perch,
Ever high and never receding,
Flowing in yet filling not the floor,
I turn to scoop the flowing bright,
My hand is drenched in warmer pools,
Over there! Moving shadows at my passing.

In the window, I see him,
Staring back at me,
His eyes on my eyes,
Light brown and deeply curious.

I follow the bump of his nose,
And ring his eyes along the momentary wrinkles,
They seem to dig in and lie still.

I blink and they remain,
Young mind and an old face,
Old mind and a young face,
A tension to tell the both of us that we are citizens of another land.

A land where wisdom comes to the humble fool,
And decay remains the side character in the story of a great salvation.