Indifferently, her eyes will trace your hand
that stoops to smooth the graceful serpentine
ceasing a moment only to define
the faithful boundaries of that strange land
that bred her silence: Egypt’s lazy sand,
the River of Sleep, shapes more or less divine,
perpetuations of our world. Her spine
rolls gently as you pause before the grand
arch of her back, her taut tail like mast
that lengthens, it seems, endlessly. At last,
she settles, daringly, upon your knee
in effortless elegance. How many
lives have suffered as painlessly as yours
to ponder beauty in its briefest hour?

You grew and you grew until you stopped growing
and there they planted a tree to mark your height
existence measured in feet and inches,
infancy meted out with a yardstick.

When you were tall enough, you walked away forever,
returning only for a holiday or a wedding
but soon not even those. You lost track of the tree 
standing alone in the yard, an orchard of one.

Then everyone else walked away, too. House and garden 
belong to others now. The cemetery
is still there at the end of the road, beyond the curve
(the dead don’t walk away so easily)

near the communal gardens, cramped and overgrown.
Occasionally, you still pass by. Between the pines
your father planted, you spy on other lives

unfolding as yours once did. Smiling, you wave.
They wave back, welcoming you to their home.