No one hears this or sees it at all
It's not life, sound, or feeling.
It's an absurd apology from an ancestor,
A silent delta supporting static streams,
A breeze displaced from intentional orbit.
On it we float, aimless as little baskets of Moses,
Destined for quarries filled with birth stones,
Passing stables, sprawling into sensible horizons,
Through fields of recirculating whispers, and beyond
The nebulous mountains of abstract memory.
This seismic world divides us, eventually
When we come to the coniferous death:
one emboldening, one defying the sovereign sun,
We lay down our life force--
-suspending the moments long enough
-excavating lives lost in massive capsized ships
-forgiving each other's steps in the inevitable fall
--and rest among the fertile, archived graves.
She visits there, laying a flower on each stone,
Replacing black with yellow, again and again.
An echoing gesture of love for us all,
The drifters outside of sight and sound.
Like anyone, sometimes I can't help but dream that death isn't as bad as advertised, and the dream does sometimes help cure my melancholy.