Spring with dandelions,
nightingales,
ruts from passing carts,
the patina of a copper sky.
A village brought together.
A quilt sown of time.
Were the people like us?
Did they live with our intensity?
They are all sleeping in the earth.
We are the dreamers
on their beach.
The echo of shells,
our ears.
The nautilus of centuries.
We have inherited their buildings,
the artifacts of their hands,
and I reach for something
as I touch doors,
peek at their houses,
wonder,
as I would looking at wings,
how far could they fly.
Where did they go,
what have I never seen?