The slowing chatter of moving leaves hints at a dying wind,
this sluggish season, weaving through this bend of time, like an old river.
I think of you and your midnight ghosts, dancing in the
shadows, and see these willow arms reaching out for one last embrace.
People’s faces shimmer in the water, shrouded at times by
clouds or the dilapidated docks from which old ships sailed.
We may never see such things again, or the prancing children
I think of as you, running along the shoreline, waving to make you stop.
The cold grave has already taken mother, father, lover,
friends, the wood posts sticking up out of the muck,
You love, hate, praise these, but already sail beyond their
reach, seeking new docks elsewhere, ahead, for another momentary pause in your
wake.
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