Memory
What shall I do when the eyes remember
Your absence. Nothing, not even a vague wisp
To feed those hungers I cannot name. Windows
open; the sanctified air has no music no incense
no grief no shadows no sacred fragments
for a last song.
.
Except memory which decrees your image,
that neither time nor distance over-arch, or claim.
For sunlight still submits to the glory of your hair.
And that drop of rain cooling your hot breath,
stays spiced and inspired at the tip of your nose,
unwilling to drop.
Night remains cathedral, your roof of stars;
The Milky Way, dim white shadow of a gown,
Whose soft swish is the wings of gathered angels.
And so you cross empty room and universe to dream
with Olwen and Sita and Consort Fu, waiting
to be called again.
So these words with you behind. A pure rapture,
because I chose our friends and conversation,
have them sit. You pick meals to share, tame hands,
place forgotten photos between pages of books.
Then I say farewell, without gift or regret,
knowing eyes remember.
Edwin Thumboo,
August 2005
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