In the careless tendrils of your hair

I can sometimes see

a kindergartener's messy braids

dangling where she's painting.

In the slope of your shoulders

I can sometimes guess

their shape in a prom dress,

as you leave me

with my camera still focusing.

In the smooth nape of your neck

I can imagine you bent

over your own infant,

rocking and wondering.

From this one place in the stream

I find myself treading

and looking back, as far as I can,

in the direction of the spring,

or, more often, gazing forward

to trace the flow

into infinity.