Crosses in the Sky

The weeks are waning, the long night is growing dim,

somewhere we set down our pens and seal the last stamp

before blessing the hands that carry our thoughts

one final time. 

Again, our tails form crosses in the sky

and we leave behind imprints of ourselves

to join the moments that will never be born--

so ghosts that were may plan for the ones

that never will be--the dreams of distant days

before I was me. 

Comfort yourself 

that something of the air I breathed

will breath in you;

something of the scenes I saw, 

you'll see;

something of the ground I walked

will know your feet--

and it would seem as if you were me.

We step into new waters, 

with unpredictable tides

tumulted by winds and floods. 

I give you no words now,

but premonitions of what I may be

and the assurance that--whatever 

our crosses--

you may always be a part of me.