Aside from the hush, hush, hush whisper of wind rustling somewhere
between the threshold of memory and silence,
dawn spreads across the horizon
diffusing a web of light & new day.
The last embers of scattered stars burn out
over a mountain.
And as I sip from a mug
a warm taste of coffee,
I think of the things that are now the past.
Things that billow around me
like ash.
I recall the cry of a sparrow.
I think I remember him asking for
forgiveness, too.
Eyes glow like lanterns
and tears spring like freshwater.
A mouth that greedily accepts love.
All this,
and a silence too rich to swallow.
I watch a migration of birds
and wonder if I could fly
where I would be by now.
My mug still warm in my hands,
yet if I had wings,
the ceramic would cool,
the coffee would go river-cold.
& I would no longer be
here.
The rain could call my name,
and the hush, hush, hush whisper
of wind rustling,
and I would be an echo,
then, a memory,
and finally,
silence.
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