Something returns to the playground at last.
Is it late enough in the body to remember
that everything happens in the mind
to a personage the mind has crafted or finagled

from the falling rain, the cold slant of it,
or the snow, the way it lays up against the house
like sheaves of music no one will ever play?
Is it finally okay to remember you,

putting yourself away somewhere in a tall cupboard
of years and their fears? It was a version of you
that stayed when you left. Can he finally come out
to play again, now that you are safely dead?