It’s a bush of memories.
Shadows of faces unable to speak.
Lost in a moment, like a mist
catching voices and thoughts
drifting in a direction of silence.
Angels gather.
We feel the pain gathered by images.
Others swell in tides of grief
we fail to completely understand.
We pray.
From our place looking out we wait
for answers.
Others wait for answers that will never
satisfy.
They weep as the seasons pass.
Roger Singer 