Traces of me

What traces of me do I

leave with you across

these years of living and

being close, yet myself?


Perhaps I leave my voice and

its tones that point to memories

that are evidence of a life lived.


Or maybe it is the presence of

my body, close and moving with

its own patterns in familiar spaces.


It could be the words that fell

that came from me in delight,

in anger, in reflection or in love.


What remains of me in the absence

from my going that is not of the

ephemeral kind and passes like

the breeze that shifts the dust?