We wouldn’t have to see so much.
The light could pass us by.
But it would hesitate
the way it will on water,
on the bluest stretch of water,
as if it knew us better
than we say we know ourselves.
We wouldn’t have to see it go.
And we would have no more
of the cold to wait for,
no more of the wind
jangling its trees
or the snap of the snow
as a man in a field
in the blue dazzle of the snow
pulls his heavy coat a little closer.
Nor would we care so much
for all of this
that we turn to, touching
as if for the last time
whatever is at hand.
Being Gone
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