the cemetery bench

wind weaves through the graves
whispering names long worn
from the headstones. we visit
on anniversaries, speak in low tones,
but mostly sit, as if before a mirror,

wondering what face will appear.
how many years will these ghosts
stay with us, whispering secrets
we will only understand when light
fades giving way to brighter sight?

 

* From Awaiting the Images

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