When the mountain is dismantled
from eons of wind and rain,
how can I say it’s gone?
When it has fondly spread itself
throughout this earth
re-shaping the terrain.
When the raindrop falls
to meet with its demise,
how can I say it’s gone?
When it serves to power
those living things
that forever will survive.
When the log transforms to fire
that will warm any frigid hand,
how can I say it’s gone?
When those hands touch another
and another and another,
and the ashes turn to soil,
for another tree to grow, again.
When light, like the sun, vanishes
upon reaching its destination,
how can I say it’s gone?
When it emits from this submission
the boundless shapes and colors
too profound for description.
When a woman, wife, mother, sister, friend
is a mountain, a raindrop, a log, a light,
how can I say she’s gone?
When I can in every moment know
she permeates this world
with a permanence more real now
than ever was before.
