Two Years

chapel_image_large

I can hear the black flies,
the campfire,
the light.

At the chapel—
the one with
the green roof—
my grandfather’s name is fading

At night inside,
the moths trapped
inside the walls are dead
and the book where I read:
The men who moil for gold
is misplaced.

I can feel it
every day
I miss it.
Come home, come home.