People can drift farther apart. They can
move away and try never to be heard from.
The colors they wore will gradually relate
to other people. Places will change after
a time and there will be fewer and fewer reminders.
It will be different. Snow will cover old paths.
Woodsmoke will continue to tell its old stories,
and I’m sorry about that, but when autumn comes
we can travel wherever we want and either
work or move on, even across the ocean,
and not pay any attention to the stars
or to certain songs if we hear them.
Sometimes a dog like our old one will run by;
roosters will crow like those every morning for so long,
but—you know— it will change. New trees
will grow. Beacons on high places everywhere
in the world will go on blinking over and over.