That secret alphabet
like calmness, or the flat, little hand disappearing,
bending south into the color of dead oak leaves
spun from your eyes, yet nearing each of us
in the dark trough of air that will rise, yet converge.
And G-d, fulfilled from stillness,
loves you; remembers us.
It‘s a cold day.
How deep can space become;
how long have you been gone?
Your story should be about children
whose little hands grasp for sky and light.
How I remember your hands—the nimble way
darkened skin fell from the bone.
© Tovli Simiryan 2012