Gifts
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.
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