My Father Taking a Picture of Us Climbing a Tree
Nate Forsythe
We smiled because we were forced.
Our lips quivered; our smiles faltered;
our minds wandered until
time finally stopped.
Even the photographer and his hands
were white and frozen. Those hands,
three times my size, which had played
catch with the sun and had battled with its
fire were no longer as young
as a flash, as a camera,
as a memory.
Our eyes tell it all and reflect
his white as it flashes
off us and our shield of bark.
What remains aren’t children but
two dragons, and a hairless Sampson
covered in snow.
What remains are dreams broiled in
silver and fire, searching
for clouds to line—searching simply
to get lost.
And as the world is left in flames
he melts, smiling, because he
knows this moment will never return.