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.