She might as well have died. Sometimes it seems
to me she did. The times I saw her again
were disjointed and confused, like drunken dreams;
a dust devil of leaves to walk toward and then

pass by. My phone calls could easily
have been prayers to the wind -- I never knew
where my wired voice was. Even if she
heard, I got more response by shouting through

the stinging, laughing rain. The little I send
her now might as well be in a grave. I've grown
some coldness in my pace. Still, I tend
to stop, sometimes, in picking up a stone

or leaf, and find myself thinking: this is cool,
Edie would like this. Then I toss it into a pool.