With Helen

Tears burn
but don't flow,
abandonment congealed
within,
childhood's grassy slopes
and manholes
on my mind. 
Dreams multiply
of a deceased lady
by my side;
together,
we walk the grounds
of the manholes --
old schools, interchanging --
so barren,
so sad . . .
and the students' concerts repeat
in the halls,
one grassy slope becoming
another --
older, then newer,
distant, then a shock
of pale green grass
under our feet --
wild, uncut, dry,
brushing against our shoes --
and I look down at the grass. 
Dear soul,
you are more serious now,
so very serious,
perhaps for knowing,
knowing
what I've forgotten.

Originally written April 14, 2012
Revised for clarity