I have waited. To speak with you again; we have forgotten our voices. Printed words are rare, sterile and devoid of intention.

You have another life beyond our memories. Beyond the years that unite us solemnly like family.

We were once close, like siblings, like lovers, like keepers of secrets. Monks praying, tending to the garden of their Eden, respectful of life’s gifts. We carefully removed the thorns and weeds of the space surrounding us; there were many. We planted borders of flowers to bloom in all seasons. Taking us in each direction we imagined for our lives. Perhaps that garden is still colorful, year round. Even today. Perhaps other people walk on our stones.

I grow older, more silent, wearing the years like a monk’s cloak, although I have left the prayers for others. You never understood. Like an old oak, my limbs grow stiff, waiting for the fatal wind to break down their last vestige of strength. I leaned on you for so many years. Time’s crutches bear me less and less well. Before I die, will we speak again?

Leave me to the ocean breeze, my ashes dusting high cliffs of heather. Will you come for me then?

a forest of time
saluting through dead branches
another full moon

. . .