Take the sky, swallowed down by a warbler before it departs as song. Or darkness steeping those first fourteen months on the cancer floor in a white crib, before the canopies of Japanese maple leak red across the horizon, the lemon trees glowing in globes of juice. Today we return to the garden with its forbidden grass and soil, its bacteria and fungus that, for too long, would have killed him. But now, remade, maybe even cured, I can lift him into the swing’s basket where he flies, breathless, out and back, over the strange crossings he’s been asked to make. Then we walk into the sandbox under winter’s lean scythe of afternoon sun. Unstoppable, his want. Look at how he starts, coating his hands, his lips with dirt, his body finally anointed with the lush possibilities of earth.