for every now
another passed
as rain into the wind
as whispers
no one noticed how they rang
forgotten now
the essence –
of almost never was
how close we were
before the morning came

for every sorrow
suffered –
the joy of once to touch
as breath to grieve
the keeping of her days
names and places
read aloud
how clear the songs we are –
moments worn
by memory
into grace

. . .