Your breath as it sits
above the ocean, so like a pale
winter’s storm drifting out to sea.
Your voice as a wave crashed
against the beach,
so adulterous to be there.
A child in winter’s clothes,
a wound stitched by barren trees…
I remember your voice could make
arias from my poems.
Your voice could climb above the clouds,
even as winter remained in the mountains.
Your voice could be a desert so dry
it might never comprehend the rain.
And so your poem will be my last poem,
a poem from a long time ago,
written by you, now that you’ve got past death,
as though the imperfect were a vocation.
For you belong to us now.
Come. Welcome me to your new home.
Let me hear your voice again, my love.
We must grow larger. It seems that we must.