Slate Eaves


There were no instruments, of course,
so we blew grass reeds, clacked stones from the river,
and sang.
There was always singing.

Your voice was changing;
your crooked singing made me laugh.
You didn't mind, it made you happy.

No one was orphaned in those moments.

The morning rain pattered on slate eaves.
I held your foot as you lay waning;
It went cold in my grasp.
Your chest, a rising and sinking knoll, grew still,

and mine became a volcano.

Still we tumble down dewy hills,
we chase flying bugs 'til breathless we fall,
and still we sing.
There is always singing.

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