THE BRIDGE

by Robert E. Petras

Our first walk together,
My granddaughter and I
patter along a sun-paved sidewalk
through the golden afterglow
of a world turning green upon itself.
As we approach an intersection
I hear “Look both ways before your cross—“
my paternal grandfather’s voice.
I look both ways.
Holding two hands
we cross
and step onto the spiral bridge,
spanning all spans,
linked by hands, by touch,
as we pad along,
a tiny hand a ring around my finger,
the same finger I will point
to the point in the future
back here while I cling to the misty past
at a now, trickling along,
in a forever gone so fast.