A GAME OF VOICES

A GAME OF VOICES

A game of voices, Father called it:
“It was his voice, he needed me,”
the weeping widow murmured.
Was it her pained longing echoed?

A cuckoo’s strained screech fills
the darkened corridors of elms,
mimicking a midnight owl’s. It is
an old call not unlike his old voice.

Was it his caress reaching out for her?
On moonlit nights like this, he would
sing to her a tremulous “Mexicali Rose”,
“I’ll come back to you some sunny day.”

The days have come and gone, but his
promise remains: an echo in the night.

—Albert B. Casuga
07-11-11

Prompt: Half past midnight in the moonlit forest, a cuckoo tried out the screech owl’s call. This morning, just a red-eyed vireo repeating himself.---Dave Bonta, The Morning Porch, 07-11-11