An aching sort of quiet hangs suspended
As it were, between then and now
Holding in firm embrace
The muted pain of sorrow.
It is, as if, by lonely isolation
Quietness alone may retrieve
The shuffle of feet so absent
Or, catch an unexpected word
Thereby rising above the horror
Laid bare by remembering.
Against the hot orange of a setting sun
Slabs of salvaged granite lie
Beneath soft trickles of water
Forever cool, forever barren.
Granite arms stretch high in a
Perpetual prayer of need
For what is and was and is yet to be.
A sighing breeze whispers softly
Causing shadows to tilt and turn,
And again emptiness jolts
On seeing empty chairs stand alone,
Vacant, rigid, plain, they wait
Devoid of life and flame
Perhaps in the remembering
They will live for us again.
Marie Hunter Atwood - 2009