Light fingertips leave no trace on moss and lichen
But they ghost over titles and birthdays,
Mother, March, Sister, September.
The army of smooth stone whispers secrets
Heard only by fireflies, vases, and embers.
There’s a stuffed animal somewhere on the way
A smiling bear left of the pond and beneath the drooping willow
Weeping, they say, a weeping willow
To wail for the bones crying for air
To blanket my spot with shadow
Died, December.
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