In Memory

And not without relief
did your door click shut,
moving comfort without
and self within.
You heard their talk
murmuring in the hallway.

Some had remarked that
none could save the youth
hundreds of thousands of buds
from leaving
brave as figureheads
and returning in anonymous cocoons.

While others waited
for their metamorphoses to recognize the offer of
loss for progress,
you returned to the chore,
digging with your pen
light scratches at the surface
of the dumb page
of record and recollection
again and again.
What passageway did you intend to find,
what offer, or inviting space?

In this I find you,
hands stone-heavy
tucked into your lap
pondering the perfection,
the justice,
of flowing water carrying
the remaining debris away
in the same way time handles memory.
How silent your pen,
already asleep in a drawer.