We know that they walk with us
every day—or maybe they flit,

fly, flutter by in the wingéd things
or in winking bits of light.

We feel them more often than
we speak of them, the dearly

departed, because who wants
to hear one more time how

much we miss them? Which
is contradictory, we know,

when they’re here—right
here—whenever we think

of them, little lightning strikes
of recognition that, if we’re

lucky, still prompt a tiny
flutter inside, these

forever beloveds, just
popping in with a quick,

sweet hi.