We come late
to the expanding universe, too late
to see those galaxies
that have traveled beyond the range
            of telescopes—old galaxies,
like ancestors, untraceable lines
that came before us.
And what else could be drifting
out of reach? Wings fly
            into the bushes, the blue
of a winter coat worn years ago.
I get no further,
no way back to that lone skater
on a frozen pond:
            the slight cracking sound
around the edges, the bumpiness
of crusted ice underfoot.
The rest is lost, the random scene
a mote passing through
            a shaft of light.
I should content myself
with sparks—
foolish to desire more, to add
another photograph to an album
            when there is not enough
time to hold each
chosen moment to the light
and raise the terrible question,
Where would I rather be?