with the big grin
looking like a crescent moon
hanging on its side
like a piece of apple pie?

Will he be as I remember him
with the octopus’ arms
that wrap around me eight strokes?

Will he be as I remember him
laughing until his head falls
off and lands on my feet
making us both look like hyenas?

Will he be as I remember him
talking up a storm cloud
of lightning, blinding us both
with bolts of electric energy in this
afternoon heat?

Will he be as I remember him
my first-born son, taken
from me so young, and then taken from
me again?

He will be remembered
as green as the meadows
sweet as the ripen apple on the tree
fury as the squirrels
chasing the lot
fondly