I’m at an age where those I’ve known
for years are dying. Some go quick, like
snow on a warm day. Some more slowly;
as if every week is a tide that takes them
farther and farther away.
To lose someone you know is to be
seized by an invisible hand that pulls
a clump of earth from your heart.
Only after months is it possible to
realize—there is more room to feel.
Now I see your faces in the knots of
trees and chase leaves because I some-
how think they hold things you
meant to say. Now I cry at garlic
bread because you loved its smell.
Perhaps this is your gift to us:
to take up space so far in that
when you go, you empty us out.
And in our grief, we look for you
everywhere till against our will
we rediscover the world.