by Naomi Shihab Nye
Nye. Transfer. Dusk
where is the name no one answered to gone off to live by itself beneath the pine trees separating houses without a friend or a bed without a father to tell it stories how hard was the path it walked on all those years belonging to none of our struggles drifting under the calendar page elusive as residue when someone said how have you been it was strangely that name that tried to answer