The song still sounds like you to me—
And what of it? 
You thought I didn’t know 
that I laid the flowers down on a grave 
belonging to a stranger, 
you thought I’d forgotten 
that you and I do battle in the spring, 
that we have never fallen in love,
that you and I do not die in summer. 

There’s a quiet richness in the passing,
lifetimes that we spend looking 
for adequate words,
for flowers blooming, 
for the roses we tire of,
and yet I press them in the pages 
of our shared histories, 
and wonder if you wonder 
when we will meet again. 

By Heidi Turner