I hear your whisper on the breeze

 

Some people will go

unnoticed

Into the veil

No condolences

Not a whisper

Just mere footprints

of their passing

Some people will leave

with nothing to remember

Them by

No postcards

Nor photographs

All but faint

Etchings in some

Solitary tree in a potter’s field

“I was here”

Their memories

Vapor on the breeze

Heading east

We catch fragments

Along the way

Mere wisps

Of conversations

The stage is bare

Floors creaking with age

In this maudlin

Production

None but God will see

Ah but perhaps

An audience of One

Perhaps Creator

Casting love down

Like roses at an encore

Perhaps this is enough

As we can no more

Pull back the veil

Of the one

Than we can for

Ourselves.