Early October sky wears more gray
than your old wool sweater. Wind chills
my neck like the string of pearls left
on your dresser.
Three months since
we shoveled earth’s dust into that windless
hollow where you waited for sky
to close, wind to worry our hair, rattle
branches as you turned to undoing.
Still my fingers remember
combing your hair, my lips hold winter’s
chill. What is left of you, intangible
as music left sounding in the flute, dissolved
in the wind and its ways. Intangible
as shadow that waits to unthread memory,
bones—renders us chill as your face that shocked
my lips when I bent the last time
to kiss you good-bye.
I pulled back leaving
you un-kissed who had become some other thing
already, one of the elements—
Fire. Earth. Water. Wind.