How is it I feel the slight wind even now,
almost breathing on my thoughts, and
the gentle green resistance of grass
beneath my tennis shoes?
How is it I sense a partial shade
across the hairs of my neck,
cast by the whispering arms of a fir
planted long before my time?
How is it I see through surrounding trees
small white clouds, folding in silent
contrast across clear blue depths, and there
your weather beaten stone?
Though I have yet to pay my respects, I feel
an approaching familiarity.
I don't know what compels me to drive so far,
just to stand by your grave.
Maybe I hope to find a touch of your presence,
still lingering behind.
Or perhaps some small piece of inspiration,
left twinkling in the grass.
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