The song still sounds like you to me—
And what of it?
You thought I didn’t know
that I laid the flowers down on a grave
belonging to a stranger,
you thought I’d forgotten
that you and I do battle in the spring,
that we have never fallen in love,
that you and I do not die in summer.

There’s a quiet richness in the passing,
lifetimes that we spend looking
for adequate words,
for flowers blooming,
for the roses we tire of,
and yet I press them in the pages
of our shared histories,
and wonder if you wonder
when we will meet again.

By Heidi Turner