04-15-2022, 05:39 AM
It’s the third spring, and a dry one,
since Death made its auspicious entrance,
another April in an endless row
that stretch into my absent future,
black dominoes ready to fall
once Memory tips them over.
John’s ashes sit in a black box
atop a bookshelf, next to a harmonium
that I never heard him play.
I’m waiting for a signal out of love
to free him once and for all, but for now
I hold on to his captured remains,
twenty seven years old he was,
too young not to be remembered.
since Death made its auspicious entrance,
another April in an endless row
that stretch into my absent future,
black dominoes ready to fall
once Memory tips them over.
John’s ashes sit in a black box
atop a bookshelf, next to a harmonium
that I never heard him play.
I’m waiting for a signal out of love
to free him once and for all, but for now
I hold on to his captured remains,
twenty seven years old he was,
too young not to be remembered.