by Dylan Cameron Gailey
Was it because the days were short
and meaningful and the nights would
be spent fitful with the scent
of burnt pallets that I am reminded
of your christening?
Or when I realized the breathe I held
would never pass between yours lips in time
and because the riverbed cannot
remember the cooling crush of rain
that I was left hesitant to ask…
Do the winds from the south speak more slowly to you?
Are birds aware they migrate in symbols of lesser
or greater degrees? How does the sparrow let you
touch her in death? Uncertain that I should ask
after all you are not yet four.