The monks were singing
in the middle of Matins
some heavenly
howling in ancient language,
as the last of the Garganeys
came flying and
sunlight beamed
on the tower —
there you arrived,
the monsoon wind blowing
away the seams of your dress.
I took my hanky to wipe my eyes
as a voice whispered
”Love is to be eternally
with all that is good.”
I held your hand as we marched
thinking I have not done enough
to deserve this blessing.
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