Wispy leaves of cherry trees are beds to
eager sparrows,
The ones that hopelessly fly about in the droplets of slight wind
And late morning light.
Old,
White windows are left open; the lovely scent of city rain
Drenching the wool blanket Auntie gave you last Christmas.

Betrayal melts away sometimes,
And the mesh of the paper is ancient.
Your voice can still be heard from the trails of ink you left.
And the old record you had, the one of the
violin sonata by Tchaikovsky, layered with the scent of coffee, reminds me of when you were young and knew about all the mistakes I made.
I loved the records, in our lovely rain garden, traced with poison ivy on red brick and worn fire escapes.
The funny thing, we never had a record player to listen.