Above the shifting tendrils of white noise
that fill the valley like wisps of mist
that linger of an autumn morning,
there is a place
where terraces of granite and of concrete run back
in jumbled, geometric patterns
into the wooded defile
There, where the stone steps become
lost amongst the trees,
set apart from his compatriots
a stone stands newly-fashioned,
emblazoned with the interwoven insignia
of the people from across the sea,
my own people
And below, two names.
His breathes still, open-ended
like a poem unfinished
Hers does not, book closed by a
hyphen between two dates
Two chocolate
pell-mell,
through the gaps between the trees in a forest of firs
The first passes through without remark
and streaks forward,
tongue wagging,
tail wagging too
A moment elapses
before the first dog recognizes his companion
has not followed
He turns and gazes into the foliage
in the sad-eyed confusion
of which only a dog is capable
The look in those liquid brown eyes
is the sound his heart makes
knowing that his hand must conjoin those two dates
because hers cannot.
August 2010
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