A Game of Stones

In the morning they are there on my doorstep, gifts of birdsong. I recall when we were gifts to be opened, how like children on Christmas morning we would tear the wrapping away. You were not a real gift back then nor I a child. Our giving was a sacrifice from one martyr to another. After the unravelling there was only a gasp of relief and farewell. From above a waterfall of years you wave to me now. I see you as birdsong sees through sky. Do I bring you gifts each day? I hope so, memory can do that. It can giftwrap a lost love, leave it on a faraway step - then move on.