We own things:
shelves lined with books, a garage
clutter of procrastination,
our memory of unhurried steps
on the beach,children we love to watch,
playing with the waves:
days draw the strings
eyes squint, vision narrows
limit entrances and exits.
I can only see
half of the light through the window
gradually, that too, will fade
will the meadow, chairs, and creativity
keep their meanings, when I’m gone?
You will be here.
How about after you leave?
note: “Perhaps tragedies are only tragedies in the presence of love, which confers meaning to loss. Loss is not felt in the absence of love.”-Elizabeth Alexander, The Light of the World, A Memoir
quoted from:brain pickings