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

1981-2