Dear John
the wind picks up
fallen leaves
and carries them
down the street
i wonder how many
will reach your old house
where your parents still live
in constant mourning
for a life cut so short
cuts me to the bone
after every summer
passes into fall
down i go
to the place you rest
with the drums
chisled into stone
my the rhythms
you used to beat out
in controlled frenzy
i hope you were right
and you’re playing for the angels now
(December 7, 2008)
