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She is humming in
the other room.

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Leaves are falling in one
window of the room in which I

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sit, listening to her,
with the door closed.

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Her voice comes to me from
another part of the house.

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And with it comes the image of
her face, the way I've seen it

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so often throughout
our years together,

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that look of absence from the
melody her body bears forth,

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yet present and alert to
whatever she's at the time

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inclined to, her neck bent
toward the task or the thing

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her hands are disposed to,
possessed of, all of her given,

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all of her giving,
all of her receiving

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the shape, the weight,
the texture and grade,

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of that momentary particular
and instant of her passing day.

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Or almost all of her,
since part of her

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goes on humming, over and over,
that one slow phrase of a song

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I can't now place.

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Humming, in a different
part of our house,

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while in the window
before me, leaves

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are falling from out of
a gone part of our year.

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She's humming a wordless phrase,
the song missing, her voice

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bearing aloft a familiar
bridge, broken off

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from the before and the after, a
fragment I know, scrap of music

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arriving from some
unfound room inside her,

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where the song, entire, sings.

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The song replete, melody,
harmony, rhythm, and words,

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is singing even as
the dead I still love

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have gone ahead, as
promised, to make

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the unknown nearly habitable.

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Even while they, as remembered,
are left behind in a past

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I can't find anywhere.

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