The slow swirl
that has been churning within
gathers force, becomes the storm
shaking the leaves.
I recognize their tremble
as my own, am inseparable
from the oak
leaning over the ravine
of my childhood. I recall
some lines you wrote:
wishing your presence
could linger forever
in our creek, or be carried
by the clouds
to where I am.
I am transported by the wind,
united with your spirit.
It is a moment
like an arc, reaching
forward and back.
Broken open, I see
the shores of past and present
from above, the whole of time
an archipelago of accidents
and intentions,
a map mirrored in the mystery
of star-splattered darkness.
Viki Peitchev 