It Was Cold Tonight When I Visited His Grave

It was cold tonight when I visited his grave
And spoke as if he could hear my words
Wavering on the winds of visible breath
Gone skyward, rising past my downcast face;
I spoke as usual, not knowing any other way,
Not absent-minded of his absence, his presence
With the Lord and not with me, but still
I spoke into the night, by faith and not
By sight, and likewise walked back to the car
With hope that one day I would rush like Mary
To the tomb and hear the words: "He is not here."