'Lancelot and Guinevere' by Herbert Draper

All That Is Left

by Franco Pagnucci
Imprints of your tires on damp sand...
I see them.  Maybe the road holds
the pressure for a while.  Maybe
leaves shifted along both sides
as you drove away.
Who else to remember you
turning a page in a room,
creaking a chair?
All goes silent,
though I put these words around you.
And nature is unmoved,
even if I love what green is left.
A new pair of muskrats stuff
weeds under the roots of the birch.
The lake cools in November rain.