Winter sun lay warm
on our backs. The grass
greened by the rainstorm
still wet as a tear

From a leafless copse
came a rapid knock
unechoed across
the softening air

And then the quiet
But a shy rebuke
a distant tap, faint
compromised the calm.

I keep writing to you,
day in and day out,
in languages of wind -
questions with no address,
apologies unechoed.

Are you warm there?
Does the light stay gentle
on the face I still see
when I close my eyes?

Peace was never
what you knew best.
You were made of storms,
and wrecking silences.

So tell me,
if whispers cross that border:

Do you finally feel safe?
Or is it me stitching
meaning into absence?
If you're hurting, I would
trade every breath
to unknot the dark.

Still spinning stories,
not knowing, but begging the air:
one feather, my love.
Just one little sign to know:  
you're loved, you're safe,
you're light at last.