After

It is quieter now.

Not because
I hurt less.

Because I have stopped
asking the morning
to return
what it has taken.

The sea
keeps its own counsel.

The olives
offer no reply.

Even the wind

passes through the branches

without explanation.

Some things
are simply gone.

Not forgotten.

Not dead.

Gone
from the life
that might have been.

There was a chair

I thought
you would one day
sit in.

It remains empty.

The years

have settled there.

Sometimes

I almost hear
your voice.

Not speaking.

Only approaching.

Then the silence

becomes itself again.

I have no argument
with silence.

Only questions.

I carry them

the way the trees
carry winter.

Without knowing

whether spring

is promise

or habit.

Still,

each morning,

the light

finds the leaves.

I cannot explain that.

I only know

it does.