i will remember you
forever more
in the lingering incense
of charred roses.
the body is smoke
and flies with vultures
(the spirit always soars higher
with the eagles)
they used to say
you were ungraspable.
i can hold you now
in a small brass receptacle.
i think everyone agrees
ashen is not your colour.
especially when semal and jasmine
line the street i carry you across
to what was once home.
it is the onset of spring.
and i sit here mourning
this autumnal shedding
wondering where the fallen leaves go
and how the branches hold back their instinct
to reach down and bring them back
into their fold.
does the tree know its loss?
should i shake it out of its reverie
urging it to look down
at what was once its own?
does it need consolation
knowing what is gone?
where are its copious tears,
the swollen eyes
red and numb?
in the silence that comes
of unasked questions
i find myself
sitting with you firmly
in hands that have not stopped shaking
under a tree that has no shade to offer.
it looks at me
with a warmth that reminds me of you
and asks, without malice
- 'what kind of loss have you known?
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