If it were simply a question of need,
I'd have buried your name
With the rest-
They speak to each other in that place,
But not to any light I recognize
Their voices fading out
Before my ear can reach them-
And whatever exists of those silver mornings
Resides in our graves-
I never imagined the memory
Of a long pondered cherry tree
Would usurp my devotion to your silence-
Though now, in midsummer
Only cicadas write their stories on the wind-
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