On Leaving
From Margins & Margins
The door stands open still —
the light that held your shape
has long since given up
the shape.
I have folded all your letters
into the drawer that sticks.
The house knows
what I will not say.
Outside, the elm is letting go
leaf by leaf, without ceremony.
Even it has learned
the practice of release.
And me?
Still standing at the sill,
watching the road that brought you
fill with ordinary rain.