It is the morning breeze stirring through
the datura, I know that,
but what if it were Grandma Rose
and Kevin and Chayim, Jane and Laurie,
Ben and Donald and Jerry
tapping the big yellow bells
on this day of the thin veil,
each blossom a bright and silent gong
calling me to memory,
alerting me to presence?
My weeping would contain
as much welcome as grief.
I miss you.
Thank you for coming.
