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Waves that drove her forward,
wordless and symphonic,
emanating from tinny
laptop speakers on the kitchen stovetop.
The music was not of this century,
it was his music, reminding her again
it was time to go and see him.
Not him, exactly, but the place where he is.
Invisible waves that made her pick up car keys.
There is a sense in sounds beyond their meaning.
Willow branches for curtains
Avenues warped by hillside
Scent of flowers
and freshly cut grass
even in death,
someone else keeps his home for him.
He didn't even bother
to take down the Christmas decorations
after the maid left, fed up with him.
The tinsel of August falling was like a flame.
Here, the late evening, midsummer flame
Left her cold.
A band playing in the distance
Summer music festivals
The waves radiating again
Pushing her that last step
and then to her knees
The red and green left outside
the graveyard walls
That breathed on ground, more blue than red,
The sun sets and the voices
errupt.
From where?
She lays blue flowers on his grave
And a green tinsel on the headstone
And the voices cry only:
more red.