Remains of Myself

deep autumn
a turtle too slow
to follow

It is warm for late November. Ticks still in the woods and ladybugs dot the windows. We walk beside pines and listen for the owl. Nothing. A moth follows us back into the house. "Is that a bird?" my grandson asks as it flickers in the light.

I wrap my arm around the rosewood guitar with Braedon close to me. We sing "Early in the Morning" as he glances at each new figure that pauses in the doorway. Footsteps come and go. I watch his lips shape the words—his voice like a whisper. In the time I have left, there are hundreds of songs to pass on. It's his turn now.

tumbling brook
words
I almost know

countless stars
the distance between
here and there

Glenn G. Coats