(I wrote this poem the day we found out that my middle school art teacher committed suicide. Someone close to me is losing someone they love, so I'm thinking about how it feels when people are gone. It's always suddenly, even when it isn't...)
Scenes from long ago
shimmer in the heat waves
rising from the street.
Past conversations drip and glimmer
down through the leaves
and fade before they hit the ground.
The only evidence that time is still
moving forward
is the wind,
which swirls the white blossoms
in a dance that can only mean
summer.
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