So many memorials sigh with water:
Water plunging down into a gaping
crevice, the negative space of building,
water falling thunderous, or rippling noiseless,
water running backward on a table, parting
to reveal martyrs and heroes, when touched.

So many memorials nurture trees:
baby Callery pears, brought as saplings,
not seeds. Eight yellowwoods planted
in 1993 for the eight women etched
into the wall. Cherry blossoms,
which speckle a green space pink.

So many memorials are ordered by
age, date, home, hobby, friends,
family, neighbors, workplace, or alphabet.
With too much text to see or read,
I imagine the storm of a thousand paper cranes.
Chasing hundreds of words with my fingers,
I keep searching for your name.