All That Is Leftby 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.