The passing of a life from everything
to something, to nothing we can see
or understand, is a work of art
that each of us paints, carves, writes, sings.
If we could run out onto the waves
west into the setting sun, beyond
the islands and the edge of space,
maybe the day would live on.
Still I sit here, where I have been quiet
for years, and I wait for you to pass.
It has always been you that I wait for.
Will you see me in the corner of your eye?
I hope you will remember I was here
when I am forgotten and you are gone.
July 28, 2014