The Thing That Remains

I carry you like a talisman in my heart pocket
so you don’t overlook the coppery moon
blanketing the lake with her fiery spotlight
or the very split second
a December rain freezes into snow
like a magic trick.

Sometimes I take you out and forget you
in the dish next to the sink.
Other times I buckle at the thought of you
and put you back inside so you don’t miss
the short rainbow peeking through the clouds
outside the airplane window
or the arousing smell of dewy white pine
when I walk upstate post-rain.