Brook Song

you haunt me in shades of grey —
they come in October mostly and
sometimes in the winter as they
spiral their spectral forms from the
clouds; their arms as cold as the

memories of you that have grown
as dim as a broken lantern, I rip the
tails of shooting stars to shine their
incandescent lines simply to make
out the fading memories of the all

topography of all your faces’ angles —
you are the white river stones, they
speak your name the loudest, they
lilt your form into being as singing
incoherent babbling of the brooks.