Whispered On the Wind
These days are short, as I begin
to walk—my daily custom now—
toward the place where, after
treatment, you lie resting.
I dream each day of when
I'll come and take you home.
But then I hear my name,
whispered on the wind, and
words besides that simply say,
"Sundial. Five o'clock today.
A message waits for you."
And with this, the wind falls silent.
On langourous summer days we'd often
wander in the park until we came to
where that sentinel of silence stood and
watched, as minutes drifted by,
implacably, the gnomon's shadow gliding—
one polished marble marker to the next.
Well into season now, the
autumn air has chilled my face.
And westward, the ruddy sun's
disk settles, its destiny fulfilled.
I look down toward the dial just
as the shadow grows indistinct.
The mark etched there means
that five o'clock has just passed.
I pause awhile but then turn back
to where l had just come, for
in the silence there that deafens,
I know that you are gone.
Dedicated to those who have lost a loved one to the Covirus and disdain for those who don't seem to care; their number is legion.
Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2020
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