The First Question

When will I see you again?

The ghosts of my past
sit like ducks in the now,
cross legged between when and then.
What compelled them to surface? 
Some touch, taste, or sound,
the feeling of the first winter wind
scattering leaves on a tensing back.

She tells me she smells the coffin 
at least one or twice a day. 
Olfactory illusion 
born in otherwise sterile rooms,
refrigerators for overflow sentiment,
chilled to keep decay at the doorframe. 

When will I see you again? 
The first question ever asked, 
primordial and stillborn,
providence of the horizon,
unanswerable
until we return 
to the depths from which we came.