I cannot speak of those days,
when fresh coffee scent began to float,
filling the morning air with hope,
when our sons' childish laughter,
hung like musical notes on currents of air.
Let us not speak of the glowing arms of sky,
that used to capture us at dusk,
And oh, the live oaks let us not trace,
Their spreading branches clothed in leaves,
They giving us shelter in our dreams,
or yearn for the noise of a colorful bird,
that treated us with humors ease.
Let us not remember the first smell of rain,
Instead, I can only think of now,
In the present of past lives lost to me.
I might consider remembering them,
With the glowing sky and coffee beans,
in shaded houses on sunny streets.
Might I then set my memory afloat,,
like a paper boat down a river.
I could ask that paper please,
whisper our story to the water,
that the water sing it to the trees,
for the trees to shake and shiver,
at pleasure through their leaves.
If I keep still and do not speak,
I might hear our whole life past,
Remove my presence from this void,
until the wind is the only word heard.