A man leaves the world and the streets he lived on grow a little shorter. One more window dark in this city, the figs on his branches will soften for birds. If we stand quietly enough evenings there grows a whole company of us standing quietly together. overhead loud grackles are claiming their trees and the sky which sews and sews, tirelessly sewing, drops her purple hem. Each thing in its time, in its place, it would be nice to think the same about people. Some people do. They sleep completely, waking refreshed. Others live in two worlds, the lost and remembered. They sleep twice, once for the one who is gone, once for themselves. They dream thickly, dream double, they wake from a dream into another one, they walk the short streets calling out names, and then they answer.
Naomi Shihab Nye - 1952-
The Man Whose Voice Has Been Taken From His Throat
remains all supple hands and gesture skin of language fusing its finest seam in fluent light with a raised finger dance of lips each sentence complete he speaks to the shadow of leaves strung tissue paper snipped into delicate flags on which side of the conversation did anyone begin? wearing two skins the brilliant question mark of Mexico stands on its head like an answer