Hoist a thing on dangling arms,
Hither to with concealed huff,
Puff the frigid swirls away,
To clear a path for boxes tough.

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.