People passing like smoke
their reflections in the glass
their ruddy faces locked away
in small
intricately carved wooden boxes
that make a sweet music
when opened.

Their bodies, which will decay
and become clean dust,
these also a sweet music make.

Watching
Listening
I breathe the bones,
lungs,
and thoughts of my ancestors
moving with this wind.

Whether carried and strewn like
October's leaves
or as if the wind itself
is the breath that these ghosts leave
in their passing.
The science texts do not say.
The stars,
hard and distant,
offer no help.