Spring forward

An April breeze
wafts scarlet blinds
from the cracked,
white window
sill.

There, I found
the last gray wisp
from where
you would sunbathe
in the spring.

I,
with a white tuft
beneath my chin,
see your small
frame in that sill
still
like a sunspot.

While your mother,
ivory, inked,
illuminated,
sleeps outside
inside, elsewhere
trying to find
you.

A hammer,
drill, and saw
blade
in the distance
build new walls.

Time takes and
takes and
always returns
less.

Matthew Lasley is the editor of two weekly newspapers in Central Kentucky. His poetry has previously appeared in Open 24 Hours, Verbatim, and Ursa Major.