For surely there is an end—
as sure as there is Spring.
I walk through the back door
and into the Methow sun.
I hold what remains of you
in my hands; it isn’t much.
Your urn has long been empty.
Ashes left at Red Wall Cavern,
ashes finally left at Glenferness.
I sold your jewelry for scrap.
This is the second time
I’ve moved in as many years,
and each time I leave
more of you behind.
And yet I take you with me—
more than ash and bone,
more than job titles, bylines,
than mementos moribund.
The engraved box holds letters
that friends and family sent you
during your final weeks—
a propos of everything you.
I step out into the March sun.
To my left, the graceful fin
of Mill Hill is bare, as parched
as it is in the ides of September.
But the Loup to the east
and the late-shadowed slopes
of Mount McClure to the south
still are clad in winter’s snow.
