the smoldering that used to be

it is said that a door closed is an opening elsewhere
that time moves forward and never back;
but here we are again at the gate
where once was closed, we can peek around the corner.
the letters we left are there, crumbling;
the flowers we strung together are there, browning.

her ghost lives there still
wrapped in veils of words and grey
she moves rhythmic and sways with the wind.

we look across the threshold
- do not to go into the yard again -
we were once happy and now no longer sit under those trees.

his engine is a long exhausted wind
the prairie grasses growing ever taller
the seat sinking low into the swamp and fog.

we carry them.
we build them shelter and offer no room for languid release.
we shuffle through the landscape
dry, dusty in the mouth
heads over our shoulders.

we miss the sunrise,
the quenching rain that is to come.