Day 87

How could you be under the rubble?  I have wondered
whether you rose from where they had left you for dead,
went walking on shattered roads, 
hiding your face. Not speaking, not writing, picking up bits
of fallen food, living on grasses, rainwater, treebark.
Even now I cannot imagine you not alive.
I am thinking of one now who searches for what he can find
of his child:  a severed hand, a shoe, a part of a toy.
Are you wandering through ruined cities
now, witnessing us?  The living are so far from you.
Though maybe by now you are everywhere.