question of us

over and again I read
the poem you didn’t write
didn’t send

in it I see lushness of spring
fall’s transparency
evenness of pain
in summer’s full glow

in it I hear the wind
roam without direction
shaking early leaves
uprooting years
feeding paths with snow

nowhere a shelter
except in waiting
for the poem
never to be written
never to be read

murmured on quiet lips
restless echo of stirrings
unaccounted by our strife
nowhere a question of us
sky speckless of our lament

you stretch out your hand
palm open not to receive
relinquishing answers
to abide by the question
one left out in the wild

that mute unwanted prayer
for alms
you no longer wish
for in your heart
heart
you no longer wish