A cuckoo names itself loudly
A pigeon rasps his challenge
Clouds scour the sky
There are days and there are days.
The forest stares back blankly
Monochrome beneath the weight above
The sea is obscured by haze
A plane thunders the air.
You would say ‘this is how it is’
And I would rail at your complacence
While yet feeling the balm of your words
Your voice now lost with the human world.
Can memory work like this?
Your conjured thought brings
The scent of wild rose upon the air
At which all words balk.
The breeze stirs the sun
Aspen leaves shimmer in the sudden shaft
Warmth rises from below
And I am undone.