The men, the boys, don’t come here anymore.
The women come to visit her and dim
the memory of he who went before,
but men and boys no longer mention him.
The house is growing empty places, grim
and chilling gaps where his things once gave
a quiet, dusty voice to secret hymns
that marked his modest path from womb to grave.
The men and boys don’t join me here now; they’ve
forgotten how it was for them when he
inspired them, taught them, loved them. But I crave
the scent, the feel of traces left to me.
A corner holds two rods–not much is here–
and when I turn the reels I feel him near.