Another Day, You're 31

Your eyes, mine, always seem set on a celestial shore—
not steeled on an ever-shaky, flim-flam drudge of days.
We look past
to a time, no pain but gold brick streets, gates of pearl—more
than John ever glimpsed, revealed on Patmos agog and dazed.
We know this world won’t last.

Yet, it’s October again and sunflowers are ceasing their yellowing
of our daily prairie roll; you north, me south.
The sumac is coming red.
After we lock doors and leave the din, the bellowing
halls, cinder block offices and the lecture dry mouth
for the wives, to be wholly fed,

we know the trees’ color show is next. Another year.
Maybe each leaf, soon to tumble down,
will mark an eternity
until we safely cross (not in myth) that other Jordan river
until we see our lost loved ones found
until at the very least, 32 or 33.