Where roses bloom behind the beat-up shed,
I kept your voice like petals in my head.
Night wind repeats the things you used to swear;
I answer back to empty summer air.
Cracked pavement shines with last week’s pouring rain,
Our footprints ran, then never ran again.
I hum the chorus that we half-way wrote,
A pocket symphony of almost-hope.
Someday these thorns will soften into leaves,
And I’ll forgive the ground where you leave.
Till then I walk the rows of could-have-been,
Recording petals on this tin machine.