Such a solid, grounded
number. A real chunk
of time. Not some wafty
little fragment floating
past. Ten. And still
pain resurfaces
as absence echoes. How
we live between two
worlds. How the wind
throws it’s whisper
across the low chimes
on my deck.
Poetry
Passover 2022
another departure sand storm and winds change on every horizon slow forward let go let us go lets go toward somewhere else trudge or gallop fasten memory to message onward into story