A Carolina Wren
My last memory is ashes drifting
in a chilly breeze across her wild flowers.
Impossibly, she was there, drifting,
whispering from the silence,
while the oration droned, while we spoke
of her, she was there, whispering,
Did you hear that?
a
Carolina wren!
I taught you well.
Thereupon silence, the wren and she
were gone, and afterward, months later,
impossibly again, she slipped into the seat
beside me, whispering from the silence,
I thought you might be on an early train.
It
is Friday night. Our children
need
me home.
We have only a quick autumn evening,
still and precious time,
to be, to love.
How,
why have you returned?
Amy, Beth, to kiss them, touch them,
and you.
Did
my memories alone pull you back?
or
something on your side?
Both sides are ours.
Thereupon silence, but the wren returns
each spring.
© George Miller 2005