Her perfect voice
remains silent.
When she says, I love you.
It penetrates marrow deep.
When we walk the cemetery
her fingers twine with mine.
A white stone marker has no name
and halts our progress.
There is space enough
for both our names.
We muse about crossing over together
and what awaits us.
A cello ushers in the night.
Her perfect voice joins in as one.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney
