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Fleeting
You are fleeting.
You are the raindrops
on the pavement after
a storm. You are snow,
in the Spring and ice–
particles in July after
a heatwave, a drought
You are twenty cents
in my jean pocket after
seven months, bleached
spots on my favorite
blouse, the head of a
half-smoked cigarette
on the porch you are
a burnt match, leaves
on our oldest Oak Tree
You are strands of hair
on a cancer patient,
and clouds are made of
dust anyway and they
disappear eventually,
much like you, drifting
endlessly like a balloon
filled with helium, I have
to let you go.
(2013)
