I could count
the times you’ve come
the way I counted the steps
of the staircase in
my grandmother’s house
its small landings
milestones celebrated with ceramic shrines
perched comfortably on snowflake doilies
knowingly destined to pay
the ultimate price
in the wake of an excitable boy.

I’d rather not
(count them, that is).
I cherish the landings
where I create my own shrines
unbreakable memories
moveable feasts
my desire to climb faster
tempered by fear
of reaching the top
I hope (against hope)
does not exist.
(Hope, two-faced,
futile and life-breathing.)

Floating dreamlike
seems a more fitting metaphor,
resisting a count
not subject to a top
which after all is
just gravity
with its silly rules
my dream mockingly ignores.
Your visits have
neither beginnings
nor endings;
how could they be counted?
Still, I love the times you’ve come.