touch broken things,
and severed wings,
your ashes on the floor
this darkened hall,
this darkened room,
i cannot see you soar.
are you so far, wan lover,
and have you gone so cold?
have all your ashes frozen
and your youth become so old?
’tis better to have love and lost,
they say, than not all;
but can you hold on tightly
to a world abruptly small,
when the memory of silk is so tender now
that you sleep on hardened ground?
where are the birds which sang to you
in such resplendent sound?
where is the glow that once surrounded
your fated hallowed ground?
and here i am, the excavator,
archaeologist, among these ruins
sent by timing and a twist of luck
to sift through what you left behind.
i found here a baby bird, starved and waiting;
instead of teaching it to fly, he gave me wings,
and now with the breeze you left
i hope to set him aloft again