Poem I'm working on but need some comments

Sawyer

Wait for midnight.
Then everyone will be gone.

Wait for the TV to go black.
Then call the deceased child:

The one a tree honors
and tries to be remembered.
The one who disappeared for days
with twin brother, whom life depended.

Stop neglecting his existence,
though his voice is hard to hear.

How were you so calm,
a model of concentration?

Wait for the night to light the room
(the color of day-old bone bruises).
Then he may give you an answer.

Pause as the cold air fills the room.
Then you’ll notice his octave.

You’ll conjure up recess at Woodbridge:
jungle gym, foot races.

*

You will search the hallows of the cold,
ask if he breathes in the shadows of dying trees.

The mask you see behind the tree
is not his face.

And the whisper in the welkin
is not his voice.

He may travel with the leaves,
crisp and crumbling, carefree.

Then you’ll remember his life
as a book of matches,
each impression a moment of burning light.