Clouds

When the echo returned, it sounded pale,
confused, weary from the journey, so I set out
a dish of milk, watched the white rise into a
cloud and float a while before it drizzled back 
into the bowl. I would never know what it
meant to say. Only that it needed me to listen,
tilt my head, share the fire. I must have needed
to listen in return, to lean in like a mirror or a
mother before our names have found them. 
That was years ago, but I would hear the echo often. 
I would see, at the curb, on the bus, in the
lobby of emergency care, lips move with
barely a sound. As if the lightness of the
words took them farther, like a prayer worn
down to the air in the center. 

-Bruce Bond