remembrance

The small things come hardest—

the fragment of geode,

the obsidian shard

muddled in the dust,

the stacked books and

favored feathers, postcards 

and lovely works, art

crafted in proof, oh proof

that once I was loved

or at least time was served,

this ravaged sediment of

labor and skill, letters left

to their tenses, gifts strewn

across my life. Nothing

so treasured, nothing so

beloved as the little glimmers,

nuzzling the nape of your neck,

forever’s thrilling shift to never.