I didn't return
to hear again 
the unrelenting

rhythms of rain,
or find the very
patch of grass 

on which you fell, 
learning to stand 
on your own feet. 

I didn't return
to raise in more
relief the names

on headstones
of those who've  
passed on 

ahead of us.
But I don't know
how much time 

there is to gather
and sew these orphan
threads, to lead

the ghosts that tap
inside the walls
at night 

out into a spot
between the trees
through which 

wind might travel,
picking up 

of a different
color to string
across the field.

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