I shouted ’cross the chasm
yet there was no answer.
Your name dying on my lips.
No stone deemed your sacrifice
worthy of consecration.

Your voice returns to me now,
only in the rustling leaves
of my chill autumn mourning.
This marble angel’s silent
lamentations and cold stare
offer no recompense nor comfort.

The grass still grows each spring.
Birds build nests in budding trees.
Children’s shadows continue
to play at hiding while the sun seeks -
invisible to the world that matters.

A leather-bound volume of poems.
It’s gilded pages muttering promises
of life‘s simple pleasures left unfulfilled,
lies open on the desk in the corner -
still emptiness of stark white illuminates
the brittle landscape of your fading photograph.

A vase left upon a polished table.
I watch as the last of the pink Amaryllis,
solemn faces turned toward a distant window,
struggle to reach twilight’s withering edge
through slatted oak veneer shades.

I chased after the whispering wind,
but made no difference to the leaves.
My reach is infinite – my grasp a surety
though retains nothing of consequence.
What, truly, have I left beyond these
few reminders of your existence?