I can mark the exact moment.
Not when you sensed some small act of selfishness,
an awkward step, saw a hidden fear exposed
in the way I danced, or didn’t dance.
A tossed remark
that resurrected an old injury.
Then the calming of the way we trembled
in the waves above the rocks offshore,
the quelling of our joyful turbulence.
Not that moment.

My moment begins with a lime green bus
spiraling up in its own dust
to the top of St. John Island,
where we sit in an open air bar,
looking out under fronds,

over a canopy of palms,
to caps of mountains largely submerged,
to this green rosary of islands dedicated
to some German saint.

I see your gaze travel
then drop to the distal island.
Now I know you want to return
to the land of white whiskered hills,
our homeland of sleds and snowshoes.

This tells of a shift in our private climate also,
for me as sudden and as unexpected
as a child’s curse.
I know you think I cannot understand,
but I can.
I am not the man of my dreams either.

Mike Forecki is a semi-retired attorney who has lived in Eau Claire for over 30 years.