A few nasturtiums where nothing else will grow.
Fir needles. Who can count them all.
And the tales they tell of galaxies in dew and dust.
A calligrapher’s turn of the rake.
One lone sow bug crosses a cool stone step.
Almost as if you have been dreaming.
Of your absence.
Or have just remembered your uncle who died in the war.
You have his pipe. Have lit it more than once.
A smoky lantern in the dark.
Spirits become shadows. Shadows spirits.
Where the irises have bloomed. Their stiffened arms.
Loved ones lovers all around. Passing through.
Your blood and bones. To seek the precipice.
You are on. And find a cloud.