another June night stretches thin,
reaches for a cloud-covered dawn

an omen or a sign,
a cruel balance that must (?) exist 

because a young girl’s wish,
a prayer, a spell was cast decades ago,
slow moving and steadfast,
traversing the past, enigmatizing the present, 
brought you here

now

time and fate obscure each other,
and a heavy heart– promised to another tender, loving soul–
must carry the weight of knowing that you really do exist on this astral plane

how beautiful it is to know that you are here,
that you have always been here–
your voice: baritone in range, tenor in timbre, off in the distance
brightly-colored and child-like–

all this time

the gods kept silent,
and remain so–

time is a cruel creation in which we live,
but not among calendar days or lunar cycles:
it’s cenote gold losing its shimmer
in unspoken truths between soft breaths, resplendent verses, and steady, stoic hunger.