The Reflection of His Face

	In the ground these thirteen years
	and in my mind the time between
	his interment in the humid summer earth
	and the cold reality of this winter day
	a thousand miles and memories away.

	Up from the ground his deep voice sounds
	and I, in recognition and respect,
	stand upright in the expectation
	of a truth to be revealed,
	an explanation these long years concealed.

	I sense the grasp of his intention,
	a gentle tug upon my sleeve,
	or is it just a rustle in the evening breeze
	that coaxes me to stand above the stone
	in close proximity to one who lies alone.

	Is that his voice I hear again
	or just another creature of the night
	awakening now and gliding with the moon
	among the clouds to disappear without a trace
	and now, the moment gone, 

	the reflection of his face.

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Old tombstone

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