Adam Gianforcaro

Mulberry

As you watch the sunset from behind the glass door, I stare 
at the back of your head—framed by pleats of plum-honeyed clouds,
framed by the door jamb, framed by the limits of my periphery. 
I can’t make the connection right away, but as I watch you
watch the sky, I recall your makeshift birthday party
in the oncology ward some years ago. Maybe it’s because
this is making me want to sing—here, now, so full of life
as you cradle your son and take pause in the transitory mulberry
of sky. You must know by now that I write more about you
than anyone else, and it's because of moments like this. 
I’m also learning that I don’t write nearly as much about sunsets, 
about small moments that feel like magical, mystical longings. 
Later, I dream about nothing other than muddled blueberries. 
Come morning, the limits of forever are once again limited by time.