We're running out of time, old friend,
dreaming in the symphony of March,
unmasked and listening to wind,
remembering when people touched
human skin to human skin,
pining in our latex suits and hoods
for ghosts pursued, forgotten, sought again,
the wooded hills are full of them,
tuning their instruments of memory,
the strings of maples and surviving elms
pulling at our small and fearful souls,
the oboes of the hill oaks at soft distance,
an orchestra of trees and fields awakening
in the spotlight of the splendid silent sun,
tanning my right cheek and your left,
having enough, wanting nothing,
grateful for our quiet company,
old friends, expanding time.
