Godwit

The night you died,

like the breath passing 

through a hollow reed,

the sharp music of your laugh

sailed to my lips

and burst into the cold tomb

where your body lay wasted

and waiting 

 

I heard that laugh again today

speaking to a dear one 

of the dream you wove 

in our hearts

that a more beautiful world

could be made

and your laugh erupted 

like an ancient echo,

like a godwit touching land

after her long migration 

 

After years of searching 

for your wild smile, 

your proud flame in the eyes

of other warm beings

the knowledge came to me

​

that you are alive

under the sycamore, 

in the roots that touch your grave

in the deciduous impulse, 

the coruscation of spring,

 

and in each who

takes the one seat 

In short, there is only we

 

I could not speak 

the language of laughter, 

I could not make 

your brave music 

with the instrument 

of my own mouth 

until I stopped singing 

and listened

 

to the voice that was not yours

speak through your memory

 

You are me, it said

you are the maker and the made

the reed, the breath, the anthem 

already singing itself 

in your veins