Never-Ending Birds

That's us pointing to the clouds. Those are clouds
of birds, now we see, one whole cloud of birds.
  
There we are, pointing out the car windows.
October. Gray-blue-white olio of birds.
  
Never-ending birds, you called the first time—
years we say it, the three of us, any 
  
two of us, one of those just endearments. 
Apt clarities. Kiss on the lips of hope.
  
I have another house. Now you have two. 
That's us pointing with our delible whorls
  
into the faraway, the true-born blue-
white unfeathering cloud of another year. 
  
Another sheet of their never ending.
There's your mother wetting back your wild curl.
  
I'm your father. That's us three, pointing up.
Dear girl. They will not—it's we who do—end.