She had been here, and now she is gone,
leaving her mark like an imprint in snow.
Her things are still here, but she has moved on.
I’ve kept her books, from Proust to Audubon,
see her freckled hand scribbling notes that show
she had once been here, and now she is gone.
Bundt pans, quiche dishes, molds for bonbon –
she could bake anything, called cake gateau.
Her things are still here, but she has moved on.
In my closet, her clothing – white chiffon,
purple suede, pure silk petticoats – as though
she had just been here, and now she has gone.
I’d call it a bun, but she said chignon.
I still have her hair clips, pins and bandeau.
Her things are still here, but she has moved on.
When I touch what was hers, she returns one
moment or two – reminding me how
she has been here. And now she is gone.
Her things become mine. But she has moved on.
