... (X)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MwQd828yKkM&ab_channel=CurrentJoys-Topic

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(author's note: For those of whom where peace doesn't rest, and where sons have left too early.)

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I

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They made their peace in small ways: 

The world moves on.

And eventually, somewhere within those movements,

They were, again, caught right up along 

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With the forced directionality, of it.

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II

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On some summer days, he’d find his way back to them.

He’d creep along the pond stones

That became their memories in motion;

Work his way from the sidewalk

To the bent handrails of their old, 

Crooked doorstep.

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He’d bang against the painted tin, glass beads

Comprising their windchimes

And he’d emote small musics, so as to prompt them out

To sit with him.

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III

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And so they’d hold each other, in that way, and listen.

And he’d remind them that the wind had always been

A singular thing

And that it yet, somehow, managed to brush its fingers

Across every and each

Individual blade of grass.

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IV

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And then they’d move on again

Upon reconciling that passing. 

But every so often, he’d stop to visit

And every so often, they’d go out to meet him. 

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And they would cry, and he’d try to brush his fingers 

Across their dampened cheeks, but couldn’t

And so would bang against their windchimes instead,

Passing his presence along the blades of grass 

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That'd comprised their front lawn.

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And it went on, that way

But he always checked in.

And he’d always cross their minds.

And they’d always be crossing his.

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And the wind blew, and the chimes, chimed.

And every summer the grass would grow back

And the wind would blow across it - always

As lovingly, and yet incessantly, the same.

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