Nayma

I open the sliding window

watch which the direction the wind blows

send a message with 64 bits set to zero.

Through the eaves I see the departed

these ghosts have not yet started, instead their faces are mirages

which remember the weeping visages that threw down the burial corsages

in the gloaming I hear them moaning,

fighting the everlasting riptide, eventually as they lie drowning

I read the uncomprehending, unbending frowning.

like dead leaves twirling to the grey earth

that spiral in concentric swirls to the cosmic maelstrom

And the trees with their reds, browns yellows and greens

screen the river from these sights that would make it scream