You are sitting alone by the tallest trees of the forest,
Perched quietly on that stone that was turned over by the erosion of silted banks;
The wild river, a little ways off,
But still the roar of it fills the air.
Your hands are clasped in front of you
And your backpack is slung to the side.
Above your quiet form,
The mountains rise like citadels
And their alpine slopes abound with pines
Like sentinels, watching,
Hiding the yellow eyed wolves
That dart within.
But they will not approach you.
They also attend the dusk,
And the secrets it brings.
The singing of the coyotes
Calls the stars out
One by one,
Emerging in a deepening blue,
While the fire of the sun’s descent
The night birds call.
I am here, my love.
Can you see my silhouette against the moon?
The darkness between us thickens
Like blood from a wound.
Reach for me
High above you, a white owl alights,
Beating its ragged wings against the thickness
Of the wilderness;
This coniferous witness to the excruciating ache
The dark shadows of the pines, motionless,
Yet, I shake.
Reach for me
You shift your weight and turn to face
The space where I stand.
You lift your hand as if
To gently place my hair
Behind my ear,
Remember how you always loved to do that
When I was here?
You touch me, almost!
We are so **** close!
You are crying now, alone.
The night birds sing to a ghost.
This deals with the pain of loss, of any kind. The struggling in the darkness to remember a face, a body, a sound, a smell. To bring him, her, it back to life, or back into your life, and the constant failure to do so. What if the lost ones who are ever present in our minds are watching us too?