Where Are You?

What life does to us
is strange, too strange,
I suppose, for many to
think about. But I
think about it, about
how you were here,
right here with the
rest of us, and now
are not, are gone into
the ground and maybe
are waving in the grass,
or are sitting silent
there, being the rock,

or are looming up
and reaching out,
being the tree, or are
drifting easily down
the street, being
the leaves burning
and the smoke.

Where are you?
You cannot not be anywhere.
I want you to come back;
but you can’t, I know.
I can fan the air
with my hands and
do no good. I was
sitting here, right here,
with you, and you were
saying or doing something
and I was not attending,
I was thinking my own
thoughts, but what
are they now? I
should have listened
deeply to you. I
should have recorded
your voice in my mind,
so that I could hear you
again and again until
I myself am smoke.