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?