You haven't left yet. 

Maybe I feel you more now than I did then. 

Maybe my eyes can learn to see as yours did. 

You haven't left yet

and your ashes sit in a box

on the shelf in my bedroom

awaiting July and Poland. 

You haven't left yet

and when I plant your tree

you can come and go as you please,

and each drop of rain is you

and your mother and her mother and hers

and each birdsong is your song,

Ave Maria, Shall we Dance,

and the full moon is your full moon,

the field as bright as day and small creatures

scuttling in the grass. 

You haven't left yet,

twilight and sunset sounding the ending

melancholy notes in the distance

and nearby, the beat of horses hooves,

a last run around the field,

and every small creature searching for a home. 

It may be just an indentation in the grass,

or a nest, or a tunnel,

it may be just an empty reed,

or a hole in a brick,

every small creature creeping towards home,

and you too creeping towards home,

but you haven't left yet.

Sent from my iPhone