People from my past are more real to me
Than the people that I meet on the street
Or at the cafe where I pay a fee
(A cup of coffee) so that we can meet
And sit and talk away the whole morning.
But in the background I hear the voices
Of those long gone. I'm not still in mourning.
But the conversations and the choices
I made with all those others years before
Are present like a persistent chorus.
They're my companions and I would no more
Ask them to leave than I'd ask for crocus
To bloom in the hot summer air. They are
My friends and like the stars they are not far.