Today the specifics
have vanished,
Impossible to reach
by brain or by train,
and yet strangely
the impulse remains
to play and to mean
to rise and to rouse –
spirit with no body to house,
desolate desert wind
that still whistles
to the disappearing moon,
tossing and catching,
asking –
Are you here?
Do you hear?
With no news to share.
Something may have died
but something else is still
alive.
Photo by Taryn Elliott from Pexels
