A Cry on the Wind



This constant vigil,

mercilessly endless,

is but an act of love, I know:

headlights blaring

through the broken dusk,

sickening heaps of flowers

crushed and soiled upon the seat.


Sorrow weighs down upon us

like handfuls of newly spaded earth

begging to be tossed.


The smell of earth, warm and moist,

and no one is there.


The mourners tent sits empty.

We have arrived too late.

Kneeling then, penitent, prayerful,

to touch the soil.


I trace my finger

over the epitaph engraved

on the hollow-white

headstone:


Her love birthed love.


The car door

catches up the evening light.

Along the window's edge,

subtle hints of black and gray appear.


A long, soft cry

on the wind --

or is it the wind?


We answer with our undying pledge:

Our love rebirths your love rebirths ours.




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