I could fill this page
and a thousand others
with fond memories
but they are too far from me.
I could fill this page
and many others
with what I’ve learned from you
yet the only lesson that comes to mind
is
angels are imaginary;
the beauty and magic
that sustain me
will someday
crumble to ashes.
I found a family here;
we’ll probably be remembered
in a poem or two
while you are cloaked in ivy.
The tedium and drama
of our lives here
will be fuel
for films, books, speeches,
and memories
while we spend a thousand tomorrows
rising at dawn, to shamble
along these leafy streets
to the place where you once nurtured us.
There will be more
audiences for us to dazzle
with what we’ve learned here,
and we will persevere
through the loss of other
irreplaceable spirits
and survive more
grim yet fond goodbyes
because we’ve learned
many times before
angels
are imaginary.
