Do I mention you by name? Tell them
how I lost you? Or do they already know –
your presence already humming in the hive?
This honey-colored day should be gray,
misted and fogged as my dreams.
Or maybe not.
Maybe the sun glides over the sycamores
and sweet gums, flecks the ferns with shade
and shine because your spirit infuses
this place with memories of your laugh,
of your hands – careful and kind.
One gatherer mumbles past, whispering
the tip of my ear. Maybe I shouldn’t tell them.
You are here.
2024-01-01