Tuesday, July 29, 2008

To Cochita

When they die suddenly,
the face remains.

Over time,
as one tries to move on,
every once in a while
they return anon.

Trace thoughts of
raspy laughter,
folds of linen,
graying hair,
coconut oil,
the little home
where fireflies meet
the heraldry of morn.

No comments: