Está terminado, por ahora.
(It is finished, for now.)
This night beneath the
dark canopy of
my largepine yard,
peeking between dying needles
and probing branches,
I traced the stars and
dreamt of moonbeams
and distant friends while
posting a letter to one;
a special one.
(Una especial.)
Where are we and
those that we have lost?
Do they watch me
weep for them?
Did the tossed instants
of their lives comprise
the best gifts beneath
my Christmas tree?
I think I see the
sparkling of their eyes
in the twinkling of
the many-colored lights.
I wish their voices
in my ears again,
and the scratching of
my pen in theirs.
I reach my hands
above my head,
and touch my
teary cheeks with
curious fingers,
and circle the final
winking truth of living
with a salty fingerpainting
of my own design,
and find them (!) there
in the spaces between
the mounded swirling colors.
I can hear them with my eyes.
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