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Streets

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.



From Words Under the Words: Selected Poems by  Naomi Shihab Nye

Miss you G. Mostly through second-hand memories and that one time you
and A made me sigh like that.