Whispering to the hillside
and the beast I imagined nearby,
thoughts poured unwittingly to the open air.

Whether dream or something
far more wicked,
he was there, near me,
ready to take
before the sun readied its arc
and while rivers churned
with feverish return of spring.

We will all be left, discarded
like shadows at midnight.
There will be nothing to hold when it is over.
But it is not over.

It’s a shame to lose
a friend like a piece of chalk,
worn by grinding time
and non-cherishing winds;

if we are all dust,
some are lighter than others
and are not meant to stay.