I didn’t see the door to yesteryear,
when we drove across the mountain.
But somehow, we slipped through,
between the tall pines and this sandy shore.
Two skinny kids I’ve brought with me move constantly
designing intricate canals and lakes at water’s edge;
oblivious, they are shadowed by an ethereal pair.
The tall spectre, boy muscles lean and taut, points here, dashes there,
directing construction; he calls out,
“Dry sand, we need dry sand!” Ever an engineer,
his current project is a sonar something he is sure I will not understand;
he’d have to shoot me if he told.
Nearby, a shorter sun-browned tow-head presence pauses-
for one ephemeral eternity.
Star flecked hazel eyes flash recognition;
his meteor grin blazes
across decades, continents,
piercing my heart with shards of light.
I blink, my vison washes clear,
visitors wordlessly disappear,
venture back into tomorrow,
spheres of their own grown-up choosing,
places less real to me than yesterday,
Where I may yet visit them,
If only in their dreams.
Brenda Zook lives in rural central Pennsylvania. Her once boy-filled nest is currently empty, but her life is filled with the people God brings to her or to whom He sends her. She loves books, gardens, writing, rambling, photography. The learning never ends.