Somewhere the old songbird still sings

She preens while he avoids mirrors

dry bed, once a creek 

yet they still feel it flowing slowly

A father without his daughter,

a remembered voice,

shushing wind and hot sand,

pillows imprinted with the shape of a little hand,

“Don't go”

lines on palms, paper, on faces

wasted sundays

Too late to pick up the drag of her laces,

time passes slowly

in the quickest fashion