This morning I recount the long-distance calls.
All those giving and receiving whisper to each other
a few sighs, undisclosed words and timid laughter
old conversations burst through the doors.
Left-over days are not erasure of history
nor an artifact of time --
not shrug of the shoulders either
in a world of denial
I hear people cry and hurt just like I do,
crossing the void in silence,
Here the honey bees chase each other in the backyard
the trees lean to breath the air,
the fine rain waters the potted plants.
There is something watching me, my renunciation,
not with ease may be.