morte des anciens

raindrops are falling
making dust
and mist
rise from the walkway
to their tomb
I take my flowers
droplets wet my face
and arms and
I feel I'm running

droplets splash against
my legs
my shorts and shirt
cling to me
as I run

droplets fill my
open arms
my face upturned
in the field with
grass and weeds

droplets pound my ears
and the shed roof
I hear my name

droplets wiped away
a soft towel
in loving hands
and me in loving arms

raindrops hit the back
of my hand
I feel the worn enamel
as I close the gate
and my memories