He was at the periphery
when he remarked upon the sky.
That it was near there.
Rungs away,
if reached around a comforting connection.

He was but lower half
and dim above,
a muffle near alarms.
He moved our access with his,
laddered in stiff, two-handed dance,
trailing fumes that longed to enter and
to leave us.

He touched above his cap
where heat collects our breath,
his sometimes reaching down and taking up
applying what we scarcely see
with, without a dangled light.

A new on old for us,
skin laid down by one between;
easier and harder for the seeing through.

Kathryn Rantala